One Last Hurrah
by MagicSwede1965
Summary: Anna-Kristina makes up her mind about taking the amakarna cure, and to beat back her nerves over it, she talks Roarke and Leslie into some reminiscing sessions. Part 1 of 3; follows 'Sibling Rivalry'
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** _This is actually part one of this particular tale because the printed version runs to more than 70 pages, and also because I had this amazing and incredible idea that made me wonder why I didn't think of it ages ago. That will be the story in between parts 1 and 2. This is a flashback, so if you're into those, enjoy!_

* * *

§ § § - August 31, 2009

They were still watching the clock during the last hour or so of school; by the time it was twenty till three, Anastasia was nursing and showed no sign of being ready to finish. "It's all right," Christian assured his wife. "I'll pick up the triplets."

She grinned. "Try not to let them tell you too much about their day before you get them home," she said facetiously, and Christian laughed, knowing the futility of that as well as she did. She watched him depart, then peered at Anastasia, whose eyelids were drooping. "Hmm...somebody's getting sleepy, it looks like." She smoothed Anastasia's wispy caramel-colored hair, wondering how long it would take her and Christian to get used to the triplets' new status as schoolchildren.

It was a quarter past three, and Anastasia was back in her room napping away, when Christian and the triplets got back. "Mommy!" they shouted as Christian let them flock in ahead of him. Leslie welcomed them with a group hug and urged them to tell her about their first day of school, and found herself listening to excited stories of new songs they were learning, the kids they had met from other parts of the island, and particularly Karina's delight that she would soon learn to write her own name, among other things. "Then I can put my name on all my stuff and Susanna won't keep saying it's hers."

Susanna shot her a dirty look, but Leslie laughed. "Did you guys make any new friends the way Mrs. Moore said you would this morning?"

"Me and Kevin did!" Tobias spoke up. "His name's Ethan and he lives down at that big place where they grow all the pineapples. He has a fifth-grade sister."

"Oh, there you go, good for you!" Leslie praised her son as Christian settled onto the couch beside her. "Susanna, Karina, what about you?"

"Not yet," they said, and Susanna added, "But maybe we will tomorrow. Mrs. Moore said we're all gonna split up into big groups and we're gonna do a special art project together. And she said it'll be fun!"

"Did she tell you what kind of art project?" Leslie asked.

Karina shook her head. "No, but I hope we get to do a lot of coloring. That's my favoritest part."

"Then maybe you will, sweetie," Leslie said with a grin, and for a few more minutes the children excitedly related what they recalled from their first day before deciding they'd talked about school long enough and heading up to their rooms to retrieve toys to play with. Leslie peered at Christian. "How much did they tell you on the way home?"

He grinned. "Nothing they didn't tell you too, don't worry." They chuckled, and he gave her a gentle hug. "I presume the baby's sleeping. You know, it surprises me they didn't charge in here looking for something to eat as soon as they came in. I can remember being hungry almost every day after school, at least while I was a child."

"I usually was too," Leslie said thoughtfully, "as a little girl. Funny, I seldom got the after-school munchies once I came here to live with Father, though. Which, come to think of it, probably just gave Mana'olana and Mariki even more reason to scold me for not eating as much as they wished I would." He laughed, and she added with a grin, "I have a feeling it won't be long before they do start asking for after-school snacks, though. Having fun can take a lot out of you."

"I seem to recall that as well," said Christian humorously. "So how long has Anastasia been down for her nap? I thought you'd be busy with something, or perhaps sleeping yourself, when we got back."

"How could I sleep when I was anticipating the kids' stories about their first day of school? Actually I was just trying to think of what we should do for supper tonight. And I was going to ask you if you've checked to see whether Anna-Kristina's replied to your message yet." She picked up the cat, Magic, who had been snoozing beside her and had crawled into her lap when the triplets burst in, and arose alongside Christian.

"That's true...I should have thought of that earlier, but we were...shall we say, distracted?" Christian said with a grin, and she snickered cheerfully back and accompanied him upstairs.

In their library, where they kept all their books—including shelves set aside for their children's tomes—and their computers, Christian booted up his computer and settled back in the chair, watching Leslie put the cat on the floor and pull her chair over beside his. Magic began to investigate the contents of the lower shelves on the floor-to-ceiling bookcases they had had installed on two walls; the triplets' voices could be faintly heard from their bedrooms, clearly engrossed in play. "They're not fighting for a change," Christian said with a chuckle, glancing in the general direction of the children's rooms. "I wonder if kindergarten has already had some kind of impact on that."

"Don't say anything—if it has, you'll probably jinx it," Leslie wisecracked, and they laughed as Christian got online and signed into his e-mail. He still had a castle e-mail account and had set up one for Leslie some time ago, though she seldom used it. She watched him working; at fifty-one he still looked surprisingly youthful, though he did have some subtle silvering to his hair and his face showed some laugh lines. He was still the best-looking man she knew, though; and more importantly to her, he still had the same beautiful soul she had fallen in love with some thirteen years before. She suspected that at forty-four, she too was showing signs of encroaching middle age; but she didn't mind. She was happy, and that was what counted most.

"Hmm," murmured Christian, and she returned to the moment to see that he was staring at a message from Anna-Kristina. "I admit to pure surprise. Read that, my Rose."

She leaned forward and peered at the message, mentally translating it from its original _jordiska_. When she finished, she met Christian's gaze with astonishment. "She's planning to take the cure after all! I thought she'd decided not to."

"I did too," he remarked. "It certainly took her more than long enough to make the decision. I find it interesting that she won't arrive till October, though. I suppose she's had to make some sort of arrangement with Kai and the girls so that they're prepared to get along without her while she's here." He hitched the chair a little closer to the desk and pulled the keyboard toward him. "I'll tell her to start making travel arrangements and give us the information when she has it, and you make a note to set aside a pass for her to get onto the island. I wonder..." His voice trailed off as he started typing in _jordiska_; fluent as he was in both languages, Leslie had long since learned that Christian couldn't maintain simultaneous trains of thought in both.

"What do you wonder?" she asked once he had sent the message to his niece.

"Whether Rogan plans to change Mr. Roarke's system of access to the island." Something seemed to occur to him and he turned to her. "Come to think of it, Rogan is merely running the business, isn't he? If Mr. Roarke's named you his heir, decisions regarding anything else of that nature should fall to you."

"Oh, well..." Leslie made a face, which made him grin. "I figure, why fix something that isn't broken. Oh wow, I've really _got_ to talk to Father about all these pesky little details. I can't believe how petty and microscopic bureaucracy can get. Don't laugh, or I'll make you help." She watched Christian try, though not very hard, to choke back his amusement. "I'm going to make a phone call...do whatever you have to."

By four o'clock, Christian had conducted all the business he needed to handle online, and Leslie was still on the phone with Roarke, making copious notes on a yellow legal pad. He settled back in his chair, letting it tilt back to its limit, and watched her scribbling down yet another bit of information, shaking his head to himself. It was quite likely she was going to need his help after all, judging from the number of question marks he could see on the pad even from where he sat. Bureaucratic functions were not his strong suit, but he knew a little something about law—_jordisk_ law, at least—from having hung around Carl Johan during the latter prince's first and only year of law school, when Christian was about ten. Some things, he knew, were universal.

It took her nearly another ten minutes to finally conclude her phone call and hang up, and that was only because her phone was about to die on her, as she told Roarke. Christian grinned when he heard that and held out his hand when she cut the connection. "Let's see that pad," he said expectantly. "From the look of it, you ended up either with only a few of the answers you were looking for, or answers that merely raised more questions."

"It's probably some of both," Leslie admitted, "but the trouble is that half of that stuff has nothing to do with running the island. What I mean is, the things with question marks are items I'll go over with Father in more depth when he and I can talk it out in person. See where I put asterisks next to a bunch of those question marks?" Christian nodded, and she met his gaze. "That's the stuff you and I need to talk about."

Christian made a noise of acknowledgment, mingled with curious interest, and put his full attention to her notes. After a minute or two he remarked, "I notice here you did ask about the charter-plane pass system. I had no idea you knew that little about it. I assumed you had intimate understanding of the workings of everything involved with Mr. Roarke's business. Yet you write here that you need to ask him how he collects the passes that have been turned in by passengers, and how to differentiate between passes given to guests and the ones held by students coming from the military base, and how many passes there are overall." He looked up. "I truly thought you knew that."

"If you take a quick look at all that," said Leslie sourly, "it turns out that what I know about the business is nothing compared to what I _don't_ know. I know we already talked to Grady about taking over general lawmaking and enforcement once Father has to, well, go, so we don't have to worry about that aspect of running the island. I knew that Father has something like two hundred islanders on his payroll, including the anglers down at the fishing village who keep the hotel and the pond restaurant in seafood. And I knew that the pay for the island's constabulary—all five of them—is part of his biweekly payroll. What I didn't know is that he owns the pineapple plantation—including the apartment buildings on that property—the apartment complex in town, and all the marinas on the island. So he collects rent from the apartments and boat rental from all the marina slips; and he sees to it that anything the plantation earns from selling pineapples abroad is put back into the operation of the whole place. That's the source of the workers' paychecks and all the equipment and material needed for the next crop of pineapples. It's a staggered system so that at least two rows of plants are producing fruit..."

_"Herregud,"_ muttered Christian, shaking his head a little.

"Yeah, me too. Father did advise me that I don't really have to know the mechanical aspects of pineapple production. I just have to be sure that the place is running smoothly and according to the rules he made—heavily revised after the original plantation house caught fire and he took over the whole setup by right of eminent domain. I also didn't know that he goes out himself on the first day of every month and collects all the rent checks from the rental offices at both apartment complexes and at the office at each marina. He's had a policy in place for years that whatever he gets in rent from the apartments goes into a fund for maintenance, upkeep, and whatever improvements need doing on a regular basis." She pulled in a breath as Christian stared at her, having all but forgotten the legal pad he still held. "Now, you see those notes about two-thirds of the way down? That has to do with acquiring fuel for the resort's vehicle fleet. And then there's the garage he owns that services the fleet. Furthermore, there are utilities—bet you never thought about that—but they're down in this little village just beyond the triplets' school. That's where we get our power and water and sewer services, and oh yes, don't forget the building that hosts the internet servers for the entire island. And then there's landscaping, and pavement maintenance and repair for the Ring Road, and upkeep and fuel for the charter plane—and last but not least, design, printing and distribution of travel flyers to advertise the resort."

"You've just given me one of the worst headaches I've had in some time," Christian complained, rubbing his forehead. "I don't see how Mr. Roarke does all that on his own, and I know for a fact that it'll be impossible for you."

"I know," she groaned, falling back in her own chair and letting her head drop back on her neck till she was staring at the ceiling directly over her head. "It seems pretty clear to me that we're going to need some kind of administrative staff, because I've got a feeling that Rogan'll refuse to have anything to do with all that stuff."

"You may well be able to create some jobs," Christian observed. "What you'll have to worry about is overseeing said administrative staff and being sure you can trust them to keep all the records and accounts, and do it honestly so that you don't suddenly find the entire complex machine spraying red ink all over the island. You might check with your friends to find out whether they have any kind of experience in this sort of thing, even if only through their college studies. I heard from Fernando that Tabitha's cat shelter relies very heavily on donations and the generosity of volunteers; she herself doesn't even draw pay, and she can't pay anyone on her staff. If Camille needs some sort of income, she might be a good choice; she's doing administrative functions for Tabitha, isn't she?"

"Yeah, both that and the fund-raising side of it," Leslie mused. "She doesn't mind it, but she says Jimmy's worried about sending Craig to college in a few years. He's only twelve and in seventh grade, but it's never too early, of course. David's in trade school as an auto mechanic and has been working in the garage on summers and weekends to help pay for it, so they're not too worried about that. But Craig and Robin..."

"Then I suggest you discuss the idea with Camille, after you talk about it with Mr. Roarke," Christian said gently, seeing her lost, exhausted expression. "Let's go over what the others do. Lauren helps Brian with the boat, as I recall..."

"Front office," said Leslie, nodding. "Myeko likes her job at the paper too much, so I don't think she'd leave that. Maureen's full owner and operator of Tomai's Catering since her mother retired, and Katsumi has the teahouse. Tabitha's doubly busy, between being Fernando's receptionist and running the cat shelter. I think Michiko's still at loose ends, but I don't know if she'd feel up to administrative and accounting functions."

"It never hurts to ask," Christian said with a smile. "Now as to the men..." He gave it a moment's thought. "Grady, we've already accounted for. Jimmy's the hotel manager; Nick is the island vet, and Brian has his ferry service. Fernando has his medical practice and Kazuo is the hotel chef. So they're all well employed." He looked up and shrugged. "I don't believe that anyone's children would be ready yet for such an enterprise."

Leslie frowned, considering it. "Other than David, the oldest one is Myeko's Alexander, and he's just started his senior year at Fantasy Island High. Noelle and Brianna are both sophomores. But unless they have career aspirations in that direction, I don't think I should count on that source of labor. If I'm going to do this, I think I'd better get Father to help me make sure I've got scrupulously honest people, while he's still here to do that."

"Mm-hmm," murmured Christian, drawing out the sound, as he flipped back Leslie's scribbled-over page and began writing rapidly on the next sheet. "Best...that I...note it..."

She watched him as he wrote, smiling a little. It took him several minutes to finish, and when he did, he glanced over what he'd written and then groaned. "What?" she asked.

"Damn it, I wrote all this in _jordiska,"_ he muttered, and she burst out laughing. "Don't worry, my Rose, I promise I'll translate it. But at least it's a beginning."

"More of one than I'd thought I'd have," she said, getting up to come over and hug him where he sat. "I'm so lucky I have you. Thanks for being a sounding board, my love."

"I told you before, that's why I'm here. Just as I said back in February when we all but fell apart, I want to be there for you, and I want you to tell me things. And that's what you've done. You see how it makes things easier? Promise me you'll keep doing that."

"Even if it adds to whatever burdens you have?" she asked, eyeing him.

He set the legal pad aside and got to his feet, taking her hands in his. "Leslie, my Rose, believe me—nothing I have on my mind at this point can possibly match the enormous changes you're facing. Please—whatever else you may do, don't ever refrain from talking to me because you think you're only adding to my own troubles. Should I run into some sort of dilemma in the course of my work, you know full well I discuss it with you." He regarded her with an expectant look, and she thought back for a moment, then nodded, realizing he was right. "I want you to do the same with any problems you have. Don't ever be afraid to come to me with some bit of knotted fishing line—" this made Leslie smile, since it sounded like another _jordisk_ slang expression— "and ask for my help. It's part of being married; at least, it is in my eyes. I hope you understand now what I meant back in February."

She nodded. "I do now, yes." Again she hugged him, closing her eyes and smiling a little as she felt his arms close around her. "I will...and thank you again."

"Thank _you,_ my Rose," he murmured, and her smile broadened as she considered all he meant when he said this. For the first time in six months, she felt at ease.


	2. Chapter 2

§ § § - October 1, 2009

The noon charter brought in Anna-Kristina and two suitcases, along with an overnight bag, a carry-on and a purse. "Are you moving in with us?" Christian kidded her.

"For the month, of course I am," said Anna-Kristina, whose smile was openly tense. "I just hope you're prepared to deal with my side effects. If Magga had hallucinations, I'll probably find myself sleepwalking, battling nightmares, seeing ghosts and demons..."

_"Such_ an optimist," Christian snorted, rolling his eyes. "Try to remember that you'll be ridding yourself of that damned spice forever. Truly, think about it—two weeks of side effects in exchange for the rest of your life free of amakarna. Don't you think it'll be worth it? You're the one who came to this island almost ten years ago asking Mr. Roarke if he could get you off the spice, and now that he can, you've been balking."

"It wasn't supposed to be difficult," Anna-Kristina muttered.

"Life is difficult, _Kattersprinsessan,"_ Christian informed her, "as you should well know by now at the ripe old age of thirty-seven. Now for fate's sake, let's get you to our house and help you get settled. The triplets are still in school, so it'll be quiet for another two hours or so after we get you home. Leslie's waiting there with Anastasia."

When they got there, Leslie was playing another game of peekaboo with Anastasia; the game broke up mostly because Anastasia stared at her cousin for a solid ten minutes while Leslie got up to hug Anna-Kristina and Christian brought in her luggage. After the usual greetings and talk about how the flights had been and how she and her girls and Kai were doing, Anna-Kristina turned her attention to Anastasia. _"Ödet ta mej,_ look at how much she's grown!" she exclaimed. "She certainly doesn't look as though she was born a little premature. And see those pretty eyes! Anastasia, you don't mind if your silly big cousin wants to hold you for a while, do you?"

Leslie grinned as she lifted Anastasia off the quilt where she sat. "She loves peekaboo, so if you're willing to play it with her, she'll be thrilled. She's such a good girl—she'll get mad if I have to delay a feeding for some reason, even by a minute or two, but she laughs and smiles all the time, and she puts up with a lot from the triplets. It's like she knows her sisters love her, and even her brother puts up with her."

Anna-Kristina laughed. "Are you the little angel around here, Princess Anastasia?" she teased, giving the baby a few quick tickles on her tummy. Sure enough, Anastasia squirmed and giggled on her cousin's arm, and Anna-Kristina beamed. "She's an adorable little thing. You really get along all right without the nanny here?"

"She wasn't exactly a nanny, more like a housekeeper," Christian corrected her, bringing in the last of her bags. "We've been doing fine really. Susanna and Karina help out quite a bit with her. They refuse to change diapers, of course, but they'll bring fresh diapers and clothes for Leslie when she needs to change or bathe Anastasia, and they bring baby wipes, powder, whatever else she needs. They even put things away when Leslie asks. They're quite the helpers, those two."

"What does Tobias do?" Anna-Kristina asked, gently bouncing Anastasia.

"Very little," Christian assured her with a wry grin. "Although he's been known to play peekaboo with Anastasia if he's in a good mood. Well, let's settle down and talk for a while. You can hold Anastasia all you like; she seems to like you."

"She likes anyone who plays peekaboo with her," Leslie reminded him, and he laughed. "So you're here for the whole month, then?"

When it came time to pick up the triplets, Leslie went alone; Christian stayed behind with Anna-Kristina, who found it impossible to relinquish her infant cousin when Anastasia fell asleep on her shoulder at her usual nap time. Susanna, Karina and Tobias were delighted to find they had a houseguest, at least till Anna-Kristina informed them that she'd been unable to bring Natalia or any of her cats along; then they seemed to lose interest and turned to their mother, asking for snacks, as she had predicted a month before.

"We'll be eating at Grandfather's tonight," Leslie told the triplets as she handed out apples to each child, "so that's all the snacks for now."

"Oh boy...Mariki makes the best desserts," Susanna said with anticipation. "Why?"

"Because your cousin has some things to talk to Grandfather about," said Leslie. "We'll be leaving in about an hour or so."

And they did at that, with a very crowded car; Mariki was delighted to find that she would have enough people to make a good dent in her Thursday-evening meal, and when Rogan appeared at Roarke's behest, she suggested he stay as well. Rogan snorted good-naturedly. "Appreciate the invitation, Mariki, but it'd be an insult to me lass if I didn't come home to her cookin'. So I hear ye're ready for the amakarna cure, Your Highness."

"As ready as I can be," she said through a sigh. "I admit I'm terrified of the side effects, but Uncle Christian reminded me that about ten years ago I came here asking Mr. Roarke if he could rid me of the need for amakarna, and I realized it would make me seem a bit hypocritical if I changed my mind. So here I am." She gave him an apprehensive look. "Magga said it tasted horrible, atop everything else."

"That'd be your sister, then? Aye, sure an' she did complain of the taste. I've done a wee bit of experimentin' with it, an' I've had some success with agave sweetener an' extract of papaya. That might help. As to the hallucinations...well, just be assured, we've all the best medical care here, so there's always help nearby."

Anna-Kristina nodded, still looking pensive, but without protesting further. "Then I guess I'm ready," she murmured. "When will I start?"

"Ye'll do it the way we did it with all five of our original test groups," said Rogan. "I'll give ye three vials through the day, one with each meal, and come Saturday we start to keep a close eye on ye if ye need any assistance. If ye start to notice anythin' wrong, tell someone immediately, Your Highness. Don't wait."

"I have one question though," Anna-Kristina ventured after a moment. "Have you heard anything from any of the women about...becoming pregnant?"

Rogan pulled up his shoulders, and Roarke regarded her with sympathy. "We haven't as yet," he said, his tone compassionate, "but then again, not very many of the trial participants have remained in touch; so it's possible that some of them may have become pregnant but haven't informed us."

Christian smiled at her. "Don't fret over that just now, all right? The important thing is ridding you of your need for that spice. Other concerns can come later."

Anna-Kristina nodded, then cleared her throat and sat up, her expression changing, as if she were determined to get her mind off the subject. "There's one other thing I'd like to ask of you...a little favor. I hope it's all right. I'd...I'd like to hear more stories of when Aunt Leslie was young and helping with fantasies."

Roarke and Leslie looked at each other and laughed. "That's an easy one," said Leslie, catching sight of the hopeful looks on the triplets' faces. "I don't mind if Father doesn't."

"I don't mind at all," Roarke said smilingly. "Very well, perhaps an hour after the meal will be sufficient."

The triplets all cheered, surprising their parents, cousin and grandfather, who laughed. "I didn't know you liked that," Leslie said, glancing at each one.

"It's fun to hear about you when you were little, Mommy," Karina said.

"I wasn't exactly little, sweetie," Leslie told her with a grin. "I was around Brianna and Noelle's age back then. But if you like hearing it, that's great. Finish supper so we can get some stuff done, and then we can tell you some of the stories."

It was a little past eight before they were ready; Christian and Anna-Kristina had been amusing Susanna, Karina, Tobias and Anastasia while Roarke and Leslie went over some of the details she had spoken with him over the phone about earlier. Roarke noticed his daughter's eyes beginning to glaze over, and smiled. "I think you're suffering from information fatigue, Leslie," he said. "Perhaps it's time for a break."

Tobias apparently had radar ears, for he instantly bounded up to the desk with a hopeful expression that turned his face into almost a caricature of itself. "Time for the stories now, Grandfather and Mommy?" he wheedled, clasping his hands.

Roarke grinned, and Leslie giggled. "Yep, time for the stories now. First things first, though. You and Susanna and Karina get into your pajamas and brush your teeth, and then we'll start."

"Okay!" Tobias blurted. "I'm gonna finish first!" With that he fled for the stairs; his sisters stared after him, looked at each other, then bolted up in his wake. The adults all burst out laughing, triggering energetic chortling from Anastasia that fed their mirth.

"I wish it were that easy every night," Christian remarked dryly. "I'll go and supervise, and that should give you time to decide which memories you'll be sharing this time."

It took almost fifteen minutes for him to get back downstairs with the excited triplets, who all eagerly bared their freshly brushed teeth at their mother, showed off their pajamas—Karina even twirled around once to make the ruffled hem of her knee-length summer nightdress flare out—and crowded around them, with Susanna and Tobias duking it out for Roarke's lap before Tobias won and Susanna settled for Christian's. Since Leslie's was already occupied by Anastasia, Karina agreed to take Anna-Kristina's lap. "Now can we start?" Susanna demanded. "We did all the stuff you wanted, Mommy!"

"Yes, now can we start?" teased Anna-Kristina.

Roarke and Leslie grinned at each other. "We can hardly say no in the face of such eagerness," Roarke observed lightly. "Suppose you choose the first one, Leslie."

She thought it over for a moment, then grinned. "We were always getting Red Baron fantasies," she mused. "I mean, all the time. Tattoo used to have to constantly play the role of the Red Baron and was always getting shot down." That brought on laughter, and she snickered in response. "But he got a break one weekend, when a guy who was a serious student of World War I decided he wanted to play the role. He made a pretty decent baron, too; he could actually fly those biplanes, and he almost—_almost_—nailed the German accent." Christian and Anna-Kristina grinned. "Anyway, there was more to this fantasy than just some World War I buff fixating on blowing the Red Baron out of the sky. And on top of that, we had a woman who decided she wanted to shave off half her age—which, naturally, came with the usual complications..."

§ § § - October 27, 1979

Roarke ushered Leslie out ahead of him and pulled the door shut behind him; they were both peering into the cloudless sky on their way across the porch, with the last few native girls hurrying down the stairs a few yards ahead of them. Roarke paused on the first step down to scan the full sweep of the sky; Leslie watched the native girls jogging barefoot up the lane and around the bend, before she heard footsteps to her left and twisted around to see Tattoo, arms held out straight in front of him like a sleepwalker, made up and dressed head to toe like a miniature version of Frankenstein's monster. She stared at him in sheer disbelief, wondering whose fantasy this might be part of.

"Good morning, boss, Leslie," Tattoo greeted them.

"Good morning, Tattoo," Roarke responded, with no reaction at all.

"Don't you see anything different about me?" Tattoo asked expectantly.

Roarke took a good look at him, then remarked with interest, "Oh...now that you mention it, yes, I have a feeling you are imitating the Frankenstein monster!" His expression changed finally, and he added, "Though I am at a complete loss to explain why."

"Well, it's to scare off the people who pick on me because of my size," Tattoo said.

Roarke seemed unmoved. "Well, with all due respect, may I suggest that you imitate the Frankenstein monster at some other time and meet us at the plane dock to welcome our incoming guests—or have you forgotten?"

Tattoo's expression collapsed and he threw his arms up in resignation before heading back toward the door. Leslie watched him go, stumping along and swaying slightly from side to side in his oversized shoes, while Roarke descended the remaining steps, muttering, "Frankenstein monster, indeed!" He got into the waiting car, turned back to look at the house and saw his ward standing there staring. "Leslie, are you coming with me, or did you plan to offer Tattoo help with removing his stage makeup?"

She twitched, blushed and scuttled down the steps. "Sorry, Mr. Roarke." But as she slid into the back seat, she heard him chuckle, and felt slightly better, wondering how long it would take Tattoo to change his clothes and join them at the plane dock.

The drive there was quiet; Roarke and Leslie stepped out, and he urged everyone to smile and signaled at the band to begin playing. But before they could turn their attention to the new arrivals, there came the warning honk of a horn, and they both turned to their right to see Tattoo's little car speeding madly along the grass between towering palms, scattering native girls as he always did, fishtailing slightly and skidding to a stop a few feet to their left (after nearly running over their toes, of course). Leslie stared at him in amazement. "Wow, that was really fast—only about ten minutes!"

"Ten minutes he shouldn't have had to take to make the changes in the first place," said Roarke in admonishment, giving Tattoo a reproving look that made the Frenchman shrug, only a little sheepish. Leslie grinned at him as he buttoned his jacket, and at last they all faced the dock.

The first guest to step out was, as Roarke introduced him, "Mr. Cornelius Weiselfarber, a locksmith and Boy Scout leader from Milwaukee, Wisconsin."

Leslie peered at him, confused by his pronunciation. "Whistlefarber?"

"Weiselfarber, Leslie," Roarke corrected her, using a long E for the first vowel.

"Sounds German," she said, and he smiled, nodding.

"What's his fantasy?" Tattoo prodded.

"He's an expert on the First World War, Tattoo—more especially, the flying aces of that war. Now this year, his scout troop has asked him to give a lecture on this, his favorite subject." As he said this last sentence, Weiselfarber accepted a lime-colored tropical drink, then paused to check his watch, thus pouring out almost the full contents of the glass. With a disgruntled look, he replaced it onto the nearest tray and chose another, amid the giggling of the native girls and Leslie's mostly futile attempts to choke back her own snickering. Roarke, of course, overheard and glanced at her with amusement.

"What does he want from us?" asked Tattoo.

"The opportunity to experience the Great War, as it was called firsthand. He's a fine pilot, Tattoo, and for this weekend he wants to be a flying ace of World War I."

"World War I!" echoed Tattoo. "Boss, can we really do that?"

Roarke shot a glance skyward and gave Tattoo a disgusted look; Leslie, giggling again at their wordless exchange, snorted. "Geez, Tattoo, that's gotta be one of the dumbest questions ever. You should know better!"

"You certainly should, my friend," commented Roarke with one last look, before shifting their collective attention to the plane dock. "Miss Helen Philips, from Poughkeepsie, New York." The woman in question was somewhere in her forties, with dark hair pulled back into a bun, glasses with the oversized lenses that were currently popular, and a severe-looking business suit with light-tan skirt and jacket and a cream-colored blouse. She carried a matching purse that looked just as plain as the outfit. "She has spent her entire adult life caring for hospital patients on a volunteer basis, while working as a librarian at Vassar College." He smiled at Leslie's impressed expression.

"What's her fantasy, boss?" inquired Tattoo.

"Miss Philips wants to shed half her age," said Roarke. "She wants to be twenty-five years old again."

"She's fifty?" Leslie blurted. "Wow. She looks only about...maybe forty-five." Roarke shot her a mildly annoyed look, which startled her. "What? That was a compliment."

Roarke chuckled. "When you reach that age yourself, my child, perhaps you'll see differently." She shrugged at that, still unable to understand.

Then Tattoo did it again: "Boss, can you really fix it so that she can be twenty-five years old again?"

This time both Roarke and Leslie speared him with incredulous stares. "What's with you today, Tattoo?" Leslie demanded. "That Frankenstein costume must've overheated your brain—I don't think it's working today." Tattoo glared at her, fielded Roarke's look and let out a small sigh; Roarke cast Leslie a quick wink over Tattoo's head, and she grinned at him as the native woman brought up Roarke's champagne flute and he toasted their latest guests—with, Leslie noticed laughingly, one more dubious look at Tattoo.


	3. Chapter 3

§ § § - October 27, 1979

Roarke drove Tattoo, Leslie, and Cornelius Weiselfarber down the northern arm of the Ring Road, past a decrepit-looking farmhouse and a couple of fields, before coming onto a second house, somewhat resembling the first one but in much better condition. Here he stopped, observing, "Here we are," and everyone got out—except for Weiselfarber, whose long white scarf (an affectation Leslie supposed must have been all the rage during World War I) got stuck on the front passenger seat somehow. He tossed his hosts a game grin before giving a solid yank; the scarf abruptly came free, and his own momentum sent him crashing to the ground with a startled grunt. Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie traded wincing glances on Weiselfarber's behalf; the two men rolled their eyes, and Leslie blurted out, "Are you okay?"

Weiselfarber picked himself up and dusted himself off, nodding. "I'm fine, thanks." He focused on Roarke. "Well, gentlemen, shall we go?"

Inside, the place was decked out like a small European tavern, with a few tables and chairs scattered around, French flags displayed prominently on the wall, framed certificates, and a long polished bar at the back of the room. "Wow, this is unbelievable!" Weiselfarber exclaimed, staring around him in wonder. "Why, it's almost an exact replica of a World War I officers' club!"

"Yes," Roarke said, going around to stand behind the bar. "In fact, it's very like the headquarters of the famed group of American pilots who came over on their own to fight alongside the French." Tattoo, Leslie and Weiselfarber settled on stools at the bar as Roarke turned to the wall behind him to retrieve something.

"The Lafayette Escadrille," Weiselfarber said eagerly.

Roarke turned and favored him with an approving smile. "Precisely."

"You amaze me, Mr. Roarke. They were the greatest heroes of the war! They had such fantastic style and...and ee-lun!"

Roarke's smile grew quizzical; Tattoo and Leslie shared a blank look, and Roarke corrected gently, "Elan."

"Oh, they had that too? That's great!" said Weiselfarber. Roarke, amused, glanced at Leslie, who hastily hid her helpless grin behind one hand; he smiled back, while Tattoo just closed his eyes in disbelief. Meanwhile the oblivious Weiselfarber asked in an eager voice, "Will they be part of my fantasy too, Mr. Roarke?"

Roarke paused a moment before his smile returned. "Perhaps," he murmured, in that mysterious low voice Leslie had learned to dread because it never answered any of her questions. After a moment, Roarke added, "I had hoped to offer a toast to your adventure, Mr. Weiselfarber—"

"Weiselfarber," corrected the name's owner, pronouncing the first vowel with a long-I sound rather than a long E as Roarke had been doing.

"Uh, Weiselfarber," Roarke repeated, using the new pronunciation. "But the liquor cabinet seems to be locked."

"Ah, well," said Weiselfarber confidently as he came around behind the bar and Roarke emerged. "The lock has not been invented that can keep this locksmith out!" Roarke took Weiselfarber's vacated stool, while their guest raised a small implement in the air and announced, "My lock-pick cover, and my pick." With that, he got to work on the small lock holding the cabinet shut; Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie glanced at one another.

"Y'know," Weiselfarber suddenly remarked, turning to face them, "you don't get to see locks like this much anymore." He turned back to his task as Roarke nodded with interest, and a couple of seconds later Weiselfarber had the lock apart and the cabinet door open. "Brandy?" he asked.

"Perfect," said Roarke, and Weiselfarber set a bottle on the counter in front of Roarke, taking down three glasses from the wall behind him while Roarke opened the bottle. Tattoo seemed very pleased indeed to be one of the recipients; Leslie looked on with interest, wondering if this time he'd actually be allowed to imbibe. In her admittedly limited experience, somehow Roarke usually managed to find a way to impede his participation in any social drinking he might do with guests. Sure enough, Roarke gave Tattoo a pointed look, and Tattoo responded with a slightly pained expression before placing a reluctant hand over the top of his glass. Leslie grinned.

Weiselfarber set about pouring brandy into glasses; somehow he failed to see Tattoo's hand lying across his glass and started to splash liquid into it, only to soak Tattoo's hand and make him jump. Weiselfarber looked a bit taken aback; belatedly Tattoo mumbled, "No thank you..."

Leslie slapped both hands over her mouth, trying very hard not to burst into laughter. Unfortunately, as Roarke and Weiselfarber raised their glasses, Tattoo began to lick his fingers, and that was too much for Leslie. Roarke threw Tattoo a reproachful look and Leslie a mildly scolding one, but she couldn't stop giggling. Tattoo made an annoyed face and stopped his licking, shooting Leslie a disgusted look. She handed him a napkin; he looked even more pained than before, but made use of it anyway.

Roarke turned to Weiselfarber and raised his glass. "To Manfred, Count von Richthoven," he said with a smile.

"The greatest flying ace of them all," Weiselfarber agreed with enthusiasm.

"Von who?" said Tattoo, catching Weiselfarber as he was about to take a drink and making their guest stare at him in disbelief.

"Von Richthoven, Tattoo," Roarke said patiently. "But he was called the Red Baron." At this Tattoo's expression cleared and he nodded understanding. Roarke arose then and began, "Uh, yes, Mr. Weiselfarber—"

"Weiselfarber," the guest once more corrected Roarke's pronunciation.

Again Roarke repeated it and added, "Tattoo and Leslie and I must get back to our guests. I hope your fantasy lives up to your expectations." He raised his glass in tandem with Weiselfarber, then interrupted himself to add, "Oh, uh..." Weiselfarber stopped himself as well and this time gave Roarke a thwarted look which his host didn't see. "You do understand, don't you, that if you can go back to the era you wish, you will be quite beyond my help, should you encounter trouble."

"Yes, well...I owe this one to my boys, Mr. Roarke. It's my only real chance to tell them about the Great War, and I can't pass it up."

"Well, in that case, Mr. Weiselfarber—" Yet again Roarke mispronounced the name and his guest corrected him. _"À vôtre santé."_

Weiselfarber tried to return it in kind: "A voter santy...a vutrah...a votruh...a vulture...uh..." Wisely he gave up and raised his glass. "Down the hatch." Roarke smiled, cast Tattoo an almost apologetic look—which, Leslie noticed, was met with a distinctly sulky one in response—and took a quick sip while Weiselfarber finally belted back his own drink. Tattoo watched, opened his mouth as if to protest, but fell glumly silent; Leslie grinned again as Roarke set his glass down on the bar top.

"Come, Tattoo and Leslie," Roarke said, and Tattoo turned his empty glass upside down beside the puddle that Weiselfarber had left in his attempt to pour Tattoo a drink; the three of them headed for the door, and as Roarke ushered Tattoo and Leslie out, Weiselfarber seemed to realize they were leaving him there.

"Mr. Roarke!" he called, but Roarke ignored him, stepped out and closed the door.

"I think he had a question," Leslie ventured as they headed for the car nearby.

Roarke smiled at her. "In very short order, my dear Leslie, he will have an answer," he assured her. "It's time to meet with Miss Philips."

Helen Philips had at least changed clothes by the time they met her at the main house, though her vividly purple dress wasn't much more stylish than the tan-and-cream skirt ensemble had been. Leslie supposed she would get a change of wardrobe to help facilitate her fantasy; this often happened in such instances. "Mr. Roarke," said Helen as the threesome gathered behind Roarke's desk, "can you really make me look twenty-five again?" She sounded severely skeptical, and Leslie wondered why she'd bothered coming in the first place if she was so prepared not to believe.

Roarke smiled with gentle tolerance, flicked an assessing glance at Helen from head to toe, then turned to his assistant. "Tattoo?"

Tattoo handed Roarke an elegant box; Roarke thanked him, set it on the desk in front of him and lifted out a bottle about five inches in height and perhaps two inches around, full nearly to the brim with a transparent dull-purple fluid. He displayed it at Helen. "The liquid in this vial contains a very special potion. Certain legends claim it can give the appearance of youth, if only temporarily. The vial contains three doses..." He indicated the two white lines painted on the side of the bottle at one-third and two-thirds measurements. "...each to be taken precisely at twelve-hour intervals, if you are to maintain the effect."

Helen scoffed, "Now, just drinking _that_ is going to make me young again?"

Roarke quirked a faint, brief smile, then picked up a small gold goblet and poured out an exact third of the bottle's contents into it before offering it to Helen. "There is only one way you can find out."

Helen peered at the cup's contents, then began to lift it to her lips, before Tattoo put in a little anxiously, "Boss...don't you think she should sit down first?"

Roarke nodded thoughtfully and mused, "Ah, perhaps Tattoo is right. Won't you sit down, Miss Philips?"

Helen took his advice and settled into one of the club chairs, removed her glasses, and downed the potion. Leslie's gaze shot to Roarke, who was staring at Helen with intense concentration; when she looked back at Helen, the woman was blinking and squinting, as if something had gone seriously wrong with her vision. Leslie watched both her guardian and his assistant gazing steadily at Helen, watched Helen blink, squint and swallow thickly in rapid sequence, as though she might be sick, and wondered what Helen was seeing. The room went dark then, and she froze in place, squeezing her eyes closed for a moment before the field behind her eyelids changed from black back to dull red. She opened her eyes with some caution, spotted Helen Philips and gaped, her hand drifting to her mouth. The woman had undergone an apparent metamorphosis: she was slimmer, her face had lost its faintly pudgy look, and the tiny tinge of gray had vanished from her hair, which now draped itself loosely around her shoulders. Helen's eyes were wide, as if she had come to realize that she could now see perfectly without her glasses.

Roarke smiled faintly in satisfaction and turned to Tattoo, who looked mesmerized. "Tattoo?" Tattoo just stared, even when Roarke snapped his fingers; Leslie stifled another snicker, and Roarke smiled at her, gesturing to a nearby table. "Leslie, if you would?"

She nodded and picked up a hand mirror from the table, taking it to Helen Philips, while Tattoo finally came back to life and pulled up by Roarke's side, still staring, as though he were getting a closer look at their guest. Helen smiled her thanks at Leslie, then looked at her reflection and gaped, mouth falling open. Roarke looked on with a small smile of satisfaction, and winked at Leslie.

Helen's face broke into a delighted, if dazed, smile. "Mr. Roarke, this is incredible!" Then she got a worried look about her. "What do I do now?"

"Well, I would say now, Miss Philips, you begin to enjoy your fantasy!"

Helen, beaming, peered at her reflection again, scrutinizing herself in the mirror every bit as much as Tattoo was scrutinizing her. Finally Helen gave the mirror back to Leslie and stood up. "I guess I don't have any time to waste, do I?"

"Not a moment," Roarke agreed and handed her the vial. "Remember my instructions precisely, and your weekend should be all you hoped for."

"Oh, I sure will," Helen chirped and hurried out of the study.

"Wow," Leslie said in wonder. "I mean...I knew you could do it, Mr. Roarke, but I just had no idea she'd come out looking so...so great."

"Great, nothing!" Tattoo blurted, still staring after the departed Helen Philips. "She looks stupendous! Fantastic! _Magnifique! Surprenant! Étonnant!"_ Having lapsed into French and finally run out of superlatives, he turned to Roarke and breathed, "Ooh la _la!"_

Roarke grinned, and Leslie burst out laughing. "I guess now you know Mr. Roarke can really do it, like you asked at the plane dock," she teased.

_"Mais oui...sacré bleu,"_ Tattoo groaned and half stumbled out the French shutters and out of sight across the rear terrace. Roarke and Leslie watched him go, then gave in to full-bore mirth.

The day slid by mostly quietly; Leslie accompanied Tattoo on a few rounds, and they had a light lunch shortly after noon, during which Mana'olana badgered Leslie to take an extra helping of dessert. "You need fat on those bones," she scolded while Leslie reddened and let her annoyed gaze slide out of focus. Roarke and Tattoo looked on with amusement. "I don't know what they fed you before you came here, young lady, but you must have been on orphanage rations, the way you eat! You can take all you want here, you know!"

Leslie whipped around at the word _orphanage_. "Just because I _am_ an orphan doesn't mean I think I'm starving like one!" she burst out, surprising both Tattoo and Roarke. "I eat as much as I want, but my mother taught me never to eat more than my stomach would hold, so I don't get sick later—because that'd be wasting food!"

"Very wise, Leslie," Roarke said, impressed. "Mana'olana, I suggest you allow the young lady to follow her mother's counsel."

"You know perfectly well the boss would never starve her," Tattoo added.

"I never said that," Mana'olana protested, offended. "Of course you wouldn't starve her, Mr. Roarke. But she might just starve herself."

Leslie groaned and rolled her eyes, and Roarke chuckled. "Let her be, Mana'olana; I see nothing wrong with her eating habits. That said, Leslie, if you'd like an extra piece of cheesecake, by all means, take it. We have no pressing engagements."

She shrugged and took one, satisfying Mana'olana enough to send the cook back to the kitchen with an approving grunt. She was pleasantly full once she finished, and Tattoo departed shortly thereafter on some more rounds while Roarke handed Leslie some mail to sort through and he himself examined a letter written on delicate stationery the color of a robin's egg. She glanced at him once, wondering what was so special about that particular letter, before devoting her attention to the newest batch of requests for fantasies.

Somewhat more than an hour later, the quiet study was breached by an older man in square-rimmed glasses, a jacket, vest and slacks the color of Helen Philips' original outfit from the plane dock, a white shirt, and a tie in gold and slate-blue stripes. He had the jacket draped over one arm and squinted despite the glasses; he looked rumpled, as though he had slept all his flights away. "Uh...you are Mr. Roarke?" he inquired, speaking in slow, measured tones, leaning forward and peering myopically through his glasses. Leslie wondered if he needed a new lens prescription.

As if startled, Roarke looked up from the letter. "Yes...what can I do for you, sir?"

"Yes...well, my name is Crane—George Crane," the new arrival announced, entering the room and stretching across the desk to shake hands with Roarke.

"How do you do, Mr. Crane," Roarke greeted him warmly.

"I am looking for a lady named Helen Philips...her, uh, her landlady said that she came here to Fantasy Island," Crane explained with a nervous laugh, displaying large, horsey teeth. Roarke smiled politely back.

"I see...and what is your interest in Miss Philips, if I may ask?" he queried.

Diffidently Crane replied, "Ah...well, I am going to marry her."

"Oh," Roarke said with interest. "You and Miss Philips are engaged, are you?"

Crane's smile vanished. "No," he admitted. "Not...not exactly."

"Oh?" prompted Roarke, while Leslie gazed on, mail forgotten.

"W-well, what I mean is..." Crane began, blinking, flustered.

Roarke seemed to take a touch of pity on him. "Sit down, Mr. Crane," he urged, rounding the desk and Leslie's chair, laying a hand briefly on her shoulder as he did so. Crane watched him come around for a moment, and Roarke explained quickly, "My ward, Leslie Hamilton." At this, Crane nodded and lowered himself into a club chair; Roarke took the other, motioned at Leslie to resume her task, and turned his attention to Crane. "Yes...as you were saying?" he prompted.

"Uh, see...I've been working as head librarian at Vassar for the past twenty years," Crane began. "And for fifteen of those years, I've been, uh...kinda sweet on Helen."

The old-fashioned term made Leslie look up again. _If he's fifty like her,_ she thought, counting back, _then that means they were born in...what, 1929? Wow! That must've been the way they talked back then._ With Roarke's full attention on Crane, she felt safe in openly eavesdropping. "Sweet enough," Crane went on, "that we go to dinner and the movies every Saturday night." He chuckled nervously, and Roarke, though listening politely, shifted a little in his chair, as if not quite able to hide an encroaching case of boredom. Leslie grinned at his expression as he lifted his gaze back to Crane, who stumbled on. "So, I...I figured that we would be husband and wife by the end of the year. Uh...at her age...she really doesn't have too much of a choice." Leslie eyed Crane oddly; even Roarke looked a little surprised. It was hard to tell whether Crane was denigrating Helen Philips, himself, or both of them.

Finally Crane asked, "Where _is_ Helen, Mr. Roarke?"

Roarke cleared his throat slightly and arose, going to one of the shuttered windows at the side of the room. "Uh, well, as a matter of fact, we do have a Helen Philips on the island," he said. Pulling open a shutter, he turned back to Crane. "Would you take a look out this window?"

Crane got up, crossed the room and cleared his own throat, peering out. Leslie could just see past him and was able to discern a couple through the open slats, strolling along side by side. "Is that your fiancée?" Roarke inquired.

Crane shook his head slightly. "No...that, uh, that girl is a lot younger."

"Ah," said Roarke in a conciliatory tone, "it's quite obvious that a mistake has been made. I'll arrange passage for you on the next flight out." He started for the desk; Leslie went back to the mail at the same moment, part of her wondering where Crane had gotten the charter pass from. She supposed he must have bought one, at the customary exorbitant rate all impulse vacationers to the island were charged at the Honolulu airport.

But Crane protested, "Uh, no, Mr. Roarke...you see, my Helen is...still somewhere on this island, and uh...I plan to find her, and take her...uh, take her back home with me."

Roarke studied him doubtfully, with a slight frown, but nodded acquiescence. "In that case, why don't you go to the hotel and see if you can get a room there; we may still have a few empty ones. There is a car waiting for you outside."

"Right," Crane agreed. "Thanks, Mr. Roarke." He cast Leslie a glance and another of those horsey smiles of his, which she returned automatically, before departing the study.

Roarke noticed Leslie staring after him. "Don't you have something to do, Leslie?" he inquired, reseating himself behind the desk.

She blinked and yanked herself up straight in the chair. "Oh, yeah...well, I know, I know. But he sure is a monkey wrench in the works, isn't he?"

Roarke settled back in his chair. "Quite a fly in the ointment, yes," he agreed.

"So what'll you do about him?" asked Leslie.

"Nothing, my child," he responded, flicking a pointed glance at the letters. "You have other matters to worry about. Mr. Crane is Miss Philips' problem, not ours."

"She won't be happy about that," Leslie mumbled, giving in at her guardian's reproving stare and slicing open another envelope. "So when do we go check on the World War I fantasy? For Mr. Whistle—I mean, Weasel—I mean, Weiselfarber?"

Roarke chuckled. "Perhaps later," he said. "You have work to do...and so do I." Once more his attention drifted to the letter on the blue paper, and Leslie caught a glimpse of some very feminine handwriting on it before her guardian relaxed in the chair and held the letter in such a way that she could no longer see what was on it. With a little sigh, she put her attention back to the mail.


	4. Chapter 4

§ § § - October 27, 1979

As it happened, though, Leslie forgot about Weiselfarber's fantasy entirely when Roarke, just after supper, reminded Leslie that tonight he was hosting what had been dubbed a "Come as Your Fantasy" ball. "I presume you would like to attend with me?"

"That sounds great!" she blurted. "So I get to dress up?"

"Of course," Tattoo assured her. "What's your fantasy?"

That brought Leslie up short, and she gaped openmouthed between Roarke and Tattoo for a good ten seconds before sagging in her chair. "Oh, drat it," she muttered, "I don't have the faintest clue. I mean..." She almost admitted to her real fantasy before remembering that it wasn't one Roarke could grant, lacking the power; and anyway, how did you dress to indicate that you wanted your late mother to come back to life? She made a face at herself and focused on them. "Maybe you could give me some ideas."

"Maybe you can look at the wardrobe," Tattoo said with a grin. "The boss has lots of costumes you'd probably like. You'll have to have a mask too—it's kind of a masquerade ball, so when you pick out something, you can get a mask to go with it."

"Oh." Leslie considered it for a moment, then grinned. "I know. What about an ice skater? I remember watching the Winter Olympics with Mom and Kristy and Kelly back in '76, and the figure skaters were my favorites. Kristy and I pretended to be ice skaters in the back yard. Kelly said we just looked goofy, twirling around, but we had fun." She turned a sheepish grin on the two amused men. "So even if I'm not really a skater, I could still look like one, couldn't I?"

"I believe we can find you a suitable costume for that, yes," Roarke said. "If you're finished, we can go now and look through the wardrobe racks."

By eight o'clock, all three of them were at the ball. Tattoo had gone earlier, and as was his wont, was most likely cruising the room looking for young women, while Leslie stuck by Roarke's side, well aware that she was by far the youngest in the room and feeling on display. But it was clear that she was with Roarke, and several partygoers complimented her on her costume—a floaty number done in white and graduating shades of ice blue, with ice-blue tights and a matching pair of ankle boots that looked very much like figure skates. The skirt was really a series of two-inch-wide strips of chiffon that floated around her with every move, and was much shorter than she was accustomed to wearing; but she didn't mind, as the tights lent some modesty. Like Roarke, she wore a mask over her eyes and nose; a section of her longish, straight hair had been drawn up on one side and fastened back with a ponytail holder from which fell three ribbons, one in white, one in ice blue and one in turquoise.

The room at the old opera house wasn't very crowded, but more couples were arriving on a regular basis, and Leslie enjoyed watching them come in and trying to figure out what they were dressed as. Eventually she and Roarke ended up at the refreshment table, where they met Helen Philips and her date, a guy named David Hanks. The young man gave Leslie another compliment on her costume, then excused himself for a moment; and Roarke took the opportunity to refill his cup from the champagne fountain, turning to Helen. "I trust your fantasy is working out well, Miss Philips?" he inquired.

Helen beamed. "Yes, thanks to you."

Roarke studied her. "Miss Philips, I should remind you that there is a time limit on your fantasy."

She gave him a look of annoyed reproval and retorted firmly, "Mr. Roarke, I know how old I really am." Roarke capitulated with grace and raised his glass to her.

Just then Tattoo approached them, this time dressed as a vampire, holding his cape up across the lower half of his face and trying to look menacing. Roarke watched him come to a halt between him and Helen and observed in a low voice, "Ah, Tattoo, I see you have a new disguise to discourage people from picking on you."

"How do you like it?" Tattoo inquired with a proud smile. "Fearful, hm?"

"Utterly," Leslie said, somehow maintaining a straight face.

"Very fearful, Tattoo, a real terror!" Roarke assured him, as Tattoo eyed Helen with his eyelids at half-mast. She peered curiously back at him. Roarke added, "I'm surprised the ladies would even dance with such a monster as you!"

Tattoo smiled again. "No problem, boss," he said serenely. "Watch this." He turned to the far corner and let out a whistle between his teeth; Roarke, Leslie and Helen followed his gaze, and Roarke did a quiet double take while Leslie stared in amazement. A statuesque young woman in makeup just like Tattoo's, wearing black touched with shimmering green, paused in front of him, and Tattoo turned to smile smugly up at them. He winked at Leslie, who grinned in spite of herself, and started to turn away, pausing only long enough to waggle his fingers in farewell before his companion swept him along at her side, hiding him from view with her voluminous cape. Roarke shook his head with mild exasperation; Leslie giggled, and Helen offered a game, if confused, smile.

Beside the rotating decorative centerpiece in the middle of the floor stood George Crane, who hadn't bothered observing the dress code and was wearing a business suit; he too stared at Tattoo and his companion as they strolled away, before making his way over to Roarke and Leslie. "Excuse me," he began, and from behind her guardian, Leslie noticed Helen give a soft gasp and lift a glittery pink mask over her eyes.

Crane noticed and blinked at her. "Oh...did I frighten you, Miss Philips?"

Helen tried to retain some calm. "You know my name?"

Crane started to reply, but Roarke put in, "If you'll excuse us, we have other guests to attend to." He laid a hand on Leslie's shoulder blade and guided her away; she threw a look back over one shoulder, but in reality had no wish to stand there and witness whatever was about to happen, since it was likely to ruin Helen Philips' fantasy.

But Helen darted after them. "Mr. Roarke, what're you trying to do to me?"

"I'm afraid I don't understand, Miss Philips," Roarke said blankly.

She scowled. "You know perfectly well who George Crane is. Are you trying to sabotage my fantasy?"

Roarke smiled faintly. "Perhaps I'm trying to enhance it."

"Look," Helen said with a small sigh, "George is all right, and I owe him an explanation sometime...but I can't do it now!"

"As you wish, Miss Philips. Will you excuse me?" This time their leavetaking was final, and Helen drew in an audible breath to protest, but there was no further concession on Roarke's part. Leslie felt a little guilty, wondering what she was going to do.

While Roarke was speaking with someone else, she peered out from behind him in what she hoped was a surreptitious manner, watching as George Crane approached Helen again. There was a quiet confrontation that ended when David Hanks, decked out like what seemed to be an old-fashioned pilot, came up to them; after a moment Crane melted away in defeat, and Helen began to dance with David. Leslie smiled a little, hoping Crane wouldn't decide this whole thing was her guardian's fault and file suit—especially when Helen and David stopped in the middle of the floor and kissed each other.

§ § § - October 28, 1979

Leslie, accompanying Roarke on a midmorning run down to the fishing village, made a face at the dirt road he had to take in order to get there. "Do you think you'll ever get this paved, Mr. Roarke?" she asked from the rover's middle seat.

"No, I have no plans to do so," he said. "The Ring Road is really the only major road on the island, and in any case, most of the natives here rely on the shuttle bus if they need to travel any distance. No one in the village has a car, and the rovers can handle these dirt paths with little problem. Once we reach the village, Leslie, you'll see what I mean."

Before she could reply to that, she noticed a figure stumble out of the trees. "Who's that?" she asked, gesturing.

Surprised, Roarke brought the car to a halt; it turned out to be Helen Philips, clad in riding clothes and looking wan. "Oh, Mr. Roarke, am I glad to see you," she gasped.

Roarke and Leslie both eyed her in surprise; her dark hair had started turning gray, and some of the gentle roundness of her face had returned. He reached out and pulled her into the empty front seat beside him. "Our horses ran off," she panted, "and the vial broke..." Leslie sat up at that, and Roarke's gaze sharpened a bit. "You've got to give me more of the potion."

Roarke shook his head and told her, "Oh, I'm afraid that's not possible, Miss Philips."

"Not possible?" she echoed, aghast and a bit outraged. She was aging even as they stared at her. "It's my fantasy—I paid for it!"

"Your fantasy was to be twenty-five again and experience young love," Roarke said, "wasn't it?"

Helen was nearly in tears. "Please, Mr. Roarke, you can't let it end like this! He loves me! He really loves me, and he wants to marry me!" Leslie realized she was speaking of David Hanks, and looked at Roarke, waiting for his reply.

"What you are doing, Miss Philips, if you'll forgive me, is worshiping youth. A wise man once told me, 'Worship age; then you will always have life to look forward to. Worship youth, and you declare your own obsolescence.' "

The fifty-year-old Helen stared back at him with an incredulous scowl while Leslie pondered those words for a moment. Then Helen demanded, "Worship age?"

"Yes," Roarke urged gently.

She stared at him in disbelief. "How can I worship age when everything belongs to the young?" Leslie hunched where she sat, as if afraid Helen would use her as an example. Roarke gave her a sympathetic smile, and that seemed to encourage her, for she begged, "Please, Mr. Roarke, you've got to give me more time. Please!"

After a moment, much to Leslie's surprise, Roarke relented. "Very well. We'll go back to the house, and I'll give you another vial...and another twelve hours."

Helen nearly collapsed with relief. "Oh...thank you," she moaned, closing her eyes and wilting in the seat. "Thank you." Roarke regarded her for another few seconds, then glanced at Leslie with a little smile, restarted the car and sent it forward.

At the house, he produced another vial for Helen and sent her off to her bungalow with it, warning her to be careful with it; she nodded eagerly, thanked him and hurried out. Leslie sat slowly in her usual chair, frowning to herself and clamping her teeth on her lower lip; Roarke watched her for a moment before inquiring, "What's on your mind, Leslie?"

"What Miss Philips said about everything belonging to the young. I'm not really sure what she meant by that," Leslie admitted.

Roarke smiled and sat at the desk. "Most likely that's because you yourself are young; but it would seem that she is right. Have you looked around you? Do you notice television shows, films, popular musical acts, models, even advertising? They all feature attractive young people, primarily in their twenties. Consider the last movie you saw with your friends, and tell me what you remember about it."

She shrugged, beginning to understand. "I guess I see what you're saying. Romance and adventure and excitement are all experienced by those young adults in TV shows and movies, aren't they? Even those romance novels a couple of the girls like to read—they're about young people falling in love. I guess American culture makes it seem like once you hit about thirty-five or so, you're too old to be worth anything." She made a face. "But that's just dumb. We get a lot of older folks here—I've seen it, especially this past summer—and they fall in love just like anybody else. And all that stuff for sale in department stores—I mean, makeup and skin creams and all that—stuff that's supposed to make you look younger. We have a pretty narrow view of what beauty is, don't we, Mr. Roarke?"

"It would certainly seem so, yes," he agreed, smiling. "Well said, Leslie. And you, just as much as Miss Philips, may be very surprised to find one day that love in later years can be just as satisfying, and even exciting—if not more so—as love in one's youth. Give it an hour or so, and I think you'll see something wonderful." He winked at her.

Sure enough, at about eleven, there was a knock on the door and Helen Philips—still looking like her true fifty-year-old self—stepped hesitantly inside. "Hi, Mr. Roarke, Leslie," she said. "Mind if we come in?" Behind her appeared David Hanks—who, to Leslie's sheer shock, had a white mustache and a band of silver fronting his burnished-gold hair. Like Helen, he wore glasses and a broad smile.

"Mr. Roarke," she blurted before she stopped to think, "you didn't tell me that!"

The adults all laughed, and David Hanks introduced himself as a fifty-two-year-old former fireman from Helen's hometown of Poughkeepsie. He explained to her that after an injury twenty-five years before, he had been cared for in the hospital by Helen Philips, with whom he had fallen in love. After he had been moved to another ward for plastic surgery, they had lost touch; it had been David's fantasy ever since then to find her again. "What we'd like to ask now, Mr. Roarke," he said with a grin, "is if you can arrange a wedding on really short notice—like, say, this afternoon. I don't want to leave here without putting a ring on Helen's finger, or I might lose track of her again."

"No chance of that," Helen assured him, and they laughed; Roarke promised to pull everything together by five o'clock, and they thanked him profusely. That put Roarke, Leslie and Tattoo on the run for the remainder of the day, with only a quick takeout lunch picked up at the café in the town square, and eventually Leslie found enough of a breather to put a few questions to Roarke. "What about George Crane?"

Roarke smiled. "I suspect he knew all along that he and Miss Philips weren't meant to be together. But it's altogether possible that, now that he is here, he too may find someone special. Never rule out possibilities."

She grinned. "Okay...and so what about Mr., uh...well, you know—our flying ace from World War I? We never got to peek in on his fantasy, and he showed yesterday morning that he's such a klutz, he might not survive it!"

"I gotta agree with that," Tattoo admitted, examining one hand for a moment as though remembering the brandy Weiselfarber had spilled on it.

Roarke laughed and said, "Mr. Weiselfarber may look ineffectual, but I daresay he has a resourceful streak—a well-hidden one. With his knowledge of locks and biplanes and the Great War in general, he should be just fine on his own. Besides, how grand an adventure could he possibly have with us looking over his shoulder half the time?"

"I guess that's true," Leslie conceded. "I just hope, with that German last name of his, he doesn't wind up getting shot to bits by the French resistance or something." Roarke laughed and patted her shoulder.

By four everything was ready; Roarke contacted David Hanks and Helen Philips to let them know, and sent Leslie to Helen's bungalow with a wedding gown while Tattoo took a tuxedo to David's. They brought the bridal couple back to the main house with them once they had changed, and Tattoo ducked back out to keep an eye on the wedding venue, being set up in the side yard of the house, while David and Helen discussed their plans for the future and asked Leslie how she had come to live on the island.

Finally Tattoo came in and announced, "Boss, the guests are starting to arrive!"

"Oh," Roarke said, checking his gold pocket watch.

"I do hope George Crane doesn't show up as an uninvited guest," Helen remarked.

"Don't worry," Tattoo said. "When he heard you were getting married, he took the first plane home."

Roarke smiled at that and informed them, "But not before asking me to wish you all the happiness in the world." On Helen's surprised, reflective look, he noted the time and arose from the desk front where he had been leaning. "Oh...we'd better hurry. After the wedding ceremony, you are due on the schooner that will take you on your honeymoon trip around the world."

This met with astonishment on the parts of David and Helen; Leslie gasped enviously, and Tattoo looked up at Roarke. "Around the world! Boss, that's great! Will you do the same thing when I get married?"

"Of course, Tattoo," Roarke agreed generously, then caught himself and peered at his assistant. "When do you think that might be?"

Tattoo thought about it. "Oh, uh...when I'm fifty," he decided.

"The perfect age for marriage," said Helen, and Tattoo grinned; they all laughed softly, and David and Helen shared a final kiss.

"What about me?" Leslie queried on their way out to the yard for the ceremony. "I wouldn't mind an around-the-world cruise myself, you know."

"As soon as you get married," Roarke parried, "come to me and I'll arrange it."

"Who says I want to get married?" she shot back. "I just want to go around the world!" Roarke laughed and gave her a paternal squeeze.

§ § § - October 29, 1979

Cornelius Weiselfarber stepped out of the rover alone on Monday morning, looking a bit pensive. "Well, Mr. ..." Roarke paused, lifted a finger and, with deliberate care toward the correct pronunciation, concluded, "Weiselfarber...ready to return to your Boy Scout troop and tell them of the glories of World War I?"

To Leslie's surprise, Weiselfarber said, "You've cured me of that, Mr. Roarke. I'm no longer a hero-worshiper of those flying aces. Besides, I think that the romance of war is a subject that shouldn't be taught to children." He winked at Leslie as he said this; she smiled agreement, glancing at Tattoo and noticing for the first time that he was wearing sunglasses. She peered oddly at him but held her questions for the moment.

Roarke smiled a little and nodded, and they watched him pull apart the two halves of a small gold locket. "Something troubling you, Mr. Weiselfarber?" Roarke inquired.

Weiselfarber looked up and asked wistfully, "Did you ever get the feeling you were living in the wrong time?"

Roarke smiled again. "I think I know the feeling, yes."

"Mr. Roarke, I was wondering...perhaps, maybe, someday soon...you could transport me back to France...you know, right after World War I, say, 1919, 1920?"

"Well, it's a very unusual request to want to return to a fantasy...but why don't you come back in six months or so, and if it still means that much to you..."

"It will, Mr. Roarke, it will," Weiselfarber assured him. "And this time, I think I might stay." He smiled faintly then. _"Au revoir."_

Roarke smiled back. "Goodbye, Mr. Weiselfarber." With that, the Wisconsin locksmith turned away and started toward the plane dock; they watched him go, waved when he turned around, and then returned the salute he gave them.

With Weiselfarber aboard the charter and the band's farewell melody beginning to wind down, Roarke started to turn to watch for the rover, and only then noticed Tattoo. "Uh, Tattoo, I've been hesitating to ask, but...I've never seen you in dark glasses before."

"Yeah, what's the story with that?" Leslie wanted to know. "Some kind of disguise, again? Is somebody still picking on you?"

"I'd rather you don't ask," Tattoo said reluctantly, and removed the glasses only to reveal a large purple bruise partially encircling his left eye.

Leslie gasped; Roarke let out an impressed breath, then offered, "Oh, I know—it was the jealous fiancé of the beautiful girl you dated last night."

"No, it was not!" Tattoo snorted, scowling.

Roarke and Leslie looked at each other, and he said, "It wasn't? Then who was it?"

"Him!" Tattoo said with exasperation, pointing across the clearing. Roarke and Leslie stared at Chester the Chimp, wearing a pair of bright yellow boxing shorts and with his hands wrapped in white gauze; the animal did a neat heels-over-head leap in the air as they gaped at him. Tattoo went on with great indignation: "I dressed him in a Godzilla outfit, and he punched me in the eye!"

"He—?" Roarke began, then despite himself began to laugh; it was contagious, for Leslie burst into chortles as well, while Tattoo glared incredulously at them both. Chester actually crouched in a stance that suggested he was ready to resume the fight; Tattoo aimed his glare at the chimp, shook a fist, then made a karate-chop move that caused Leslie to explode altogether. Still laughing, Roarke reached around and patted Tattoo's shoulder, then pulled Leslie over to him and allowed himself to join her in giving his mirth full voice.


	5. Chapter 5

§ § § - October 1, 2009

"Oh, that was cruel!" Anna-Kristina blurted, half laughing despite herself; the triplets were shrieking with glee, and Christian was shaking his head in amused disbelief while Roarke and Leslie laughed with the memory. Anastasia stared at them all, then gurgled as if offering her own opinion. "Poor Tattoo," Anna-Kristina added. "To think he couldn't defend himself against a chimpanzee..."

"Chimps can punch like you wouldn't believe," Leslie assured her. "Tattoo was lucky all he got was a black eye. And something tells me it wouldn't have happened if he hadn't tried to dress up Chester. But I have to tell you, we were all relieved when Tattoo's cousin took Chester home with him after Tattoo married Solange. I think Father always had it in the back of his mind somewhere that one day, that chimp would be the reason for a gigantic lawsuit. I just hope Chester and Hugo lived happily ever after."

"True love forever?" Christian offered with a raised brow, which made Leslie burst out laughing. Anastasia squealed with delight at the motion when Leslie tipped to one side, weak with mirth at the idea Christian's remark had planted in her head.

Anna-Kristina dug an elbow into his side. "Uncle Christian, _really!"_

Christian winced and threw her a look, then started to laugh too. "Sorry, I couldn't help myself. So, a couple of other questions. First, did Mr. Weiselfarber really come back and return permanently to post-World-War-I France?"

"He did at that," Roarke said, "the following April. History tells us he and his Monique had several children and passed away within a year of each other in the late fifties, around the time you were born, Christian."

"Ah, I see...and my Rose, that blue letter you referred to that he was reading?"

"It turned out to be from Helena Marsh," said Leslie softly, resettling herself and wrapping both hands around Anastasia's tummy, leaning down to nuzzle her baby daughter's hair. "I forgot about it in the excitement of David and Helen Hanks' wedding. It was the last weekend before Helena came back with Jamie to marry Father."

Christian nodded understanding; Anna-Kristina glanced back and forth among them, as if afraid to ask. Tobias ended up doing it for her. "Who was Helena Marsh?"

Leslie traded a quick look with Roarke. "She was almost my stepmother."

She watched her children look at each other in amazement. "What about your real mother, though?" Susanna protested. "I saw a picture of her."

Christian caught her arm, making her twist her head around to stare up at him. "Not now, Susanna. We'll tell you another time, all right?"

"I suggest you do it now," Roarke offered, patting Tobias' shoulder as he spoke. "It's grown late enough for you children to be in bed by now; in any case, you have school tomorrow, and your baby sister is already falling asleep." Leslie had settled a drowsy Anastasia onto her shoulder, her eyes a little distant.

"We'll go to sleep if you tell us," Karina begged hopefully.

"Don't make your mother sad, Karina," Anna-Kristina advised her cousin. "For now, we should just go home. I'm sure they'll tell you when they have more time." To Roarke she said, "We'll do this again soon, won't we, I hope?"

"Of course we will," Roarke assured her. "For now, I hope you'll sleep well, and we'll see you here for breakfast tomorrow."

§ § § - October 2, 2009

"So did you explain to the children?" Roarke inquired the following morning. Anna-Kristina had come along with Christian and Leslie to the main house, after dropping off the triplets at school; Anastasia was sound asleep on Leslie's shoulder, having awakened her mother for a wickedly early feeding and then gone back to sleep when it was too late for Leslie to do the same.

"We tried to put it in terms they would understand," Christian said, smoothing Leslie's hair as he spoke and they strolled slowly toward the table on the veranda. "They all tried to comfort Leslie when she explained the story of how Michael set the house fire that killed Shannon and Kristy and Kelly, and we even played that old cassette tape for them—the one Shannon left Leslie in the safe, that we traveled to California to retrieve seven years back. They got quite a kick out of hearing the voices, but Karina said she wished she could meet Shannon as she met Mother, and I'm afraid that upset Leslie."

Anna-Kristina was staring at him as they sat down around the table and Leslie laid Anastasia in a baby carrier. "What do you mean by that? Karina never met Grandmamma—even Aunt Leslie never met her."

Christian sighed and traded a tolerant glance with Leslie. "Fortunately for you, you'll be here long enough for us to explain a few things to you. We'll tell you after breakfast, after you've taken your first dose of the serum."

Roarke nodded and said, "Rogan should be here anytime with the vial. Meantime, let's go ahead and begin the meal. I'm sure you're all hungry."

Rogan appeared about midway through breakfast and handed Anna-Kristina an old baby-food jar about a quarter full. "That's your first dose. I'll bring the others around during those meals. Leave some on your plate, so that when you take this, you'll have something to chase away the aftertaste."

"I thought you said you tried to make it better," Leslie said.

"Och, cousin, tinkering can do only so much. I think Her Highness here will be able to tolerate it better than her sister did, though." Rogan grinned. "When you're ready."

"No brogue today?" Christian inquired, grinning.

"It's Friday, not Saturday," said Rogan, and they all laughed. "I've got to get back—let me know how it goes." Christian and Leslie assured him they'd keep him posted, and he loped off the porch while Anna-Kristina examined the liquid in the jar. It was a dark shade of green that didn't seem to match anything found in nature, and the princess had a dubious look on her face that made Christian grin with resignation.

"Go ahead, _Kattersprinsessan,_ you may as well take the plunge now. Otherwise we'll just have to find a jar of amakarna and shake it on what's left of your food," he said.

To his surprise, Anna-Kristina sucked in a breath through her nose and directed a foul look at the jar. "No more amakarna," she growled, and with that twisted the top off the jar and gulped back the contents before anyone else could move.

Roarke, Leslie and Christian all watched her closely while she swallowed the last of it; she sat as though frozen stiff for a second, eyes screwed tightly shut, before making a gruesome face and reaching for her morning coffee cup. _"Ödarna i sina slott, va' greselig!"_

"Hideous?" repeated Christian for Roarke's benefit. "Even Magga didn't call it that."

"But Magga made the same revolted faces," said Leslie with a grin. "I guess the agave and papaya didn't help much."

"It was as if someone added all the world's most bitter liquids to a tiny bit of fruit juice," Anna-Kristina said, groaning and setting down her coffee cup with a thunk. "Mr. Roarke, I know this will sound truly horrid, but tell me...did anyone turn out to not tolerate this after they tried to take it? I mean...did their stomachs send it back?"

Leslie giggled. "You mean did they throw up, right? Well, one thing I can tell you, if you do happen to vomit it up later, you'll be the very first one."

Anna-Kristina's expression twisted even more, and she muttered, "It would be just my luck if I were. Ach, I remember thinking how bitter coffee was the first time I tried it when I was ten or eleven years old. Coffee tastes like wine compared to that."

"And just think, only two more doses to go," said Christian with a grin. "Just keep remembering the goal, _Kattersprinsessan_. I think we'd best finish; I'll go into the office for the rest of the morning, but I'll be here for lunch."

Anna-Kristina found it progressively harder to down the serum throughout the day. After taking the second dose, she demolished half a pitcher of pineapple juice, astonishing even Christian; and at supper she waited till dessert arrived before pinching her nose shut to belt down the last dose. It was immediately clear that this didn't help much; she barely managed to swallow the last mouthful before gagging, clapping her hands over her mouth and turning away. The triplets stared at her; Karina looked frightened, Tobias began giggling, and Susanna made faces. Anastasia, sitting in a high chair between Leslie's and Karina's chairs, clearly thought it was a game and chortled alongside her brother.

It took poor Anna-Kristina almost ten minutes to settle back down; she caught her uncle's and aunt's worried stares and croaked, "At least Mr. Roarke didn't have to see all that." Roarke was attending an island council meeting.

"Eat some cheesecake," Leslie suggested. "That's thick and creamy enough to help get rid of the aftertaste. But don't push it—wait till your stomach's ready."

"I'm not sure it will be," Anna-Kristina muttered. "I'm just glad I'll never have to drink any more of that horrible stuff again. After all this trouble, it had better work!"

"It'll work," said Christian, who had eyed his niece with a comical mixture of doubt and concern while she was wresting with the serum. "I really have to wonder how much of that carrying on was real and how much of it was designed to amuse the children and any incidental passersby." Leslie snickered, stifled it, and told Tobias to stop laughing.

Anna-Kristina glared and growled, "Uncle Christian!"

He rolled his eyes tolerantly. "Just like your childhood. Fate only knows what lies in wait for us now, when you've hammed it up this much just taking the stuff."

"I deserve some kind of award just for getting it down my throat, if you ask me," his niece retorted. "Such as...perhaps another fantasy memory."

Christian paused, met Leslie's gaze and commented, "Now I _know_ it was all an act." Leslie burst out laughing, and Anna-Kristina's glare intensified, which just made Christian start to laugh as well.

But Leslie was amenable enough to sharing another memory, and after the meal they decamped to the study, where once again Christian and Leslie used the prospect of a story to bribe the triplets into donning pajamas and brushing their teeth. "That won't work every time," Anna-Kristina remarked while Christian was upstairs supervising the latter activity. "They're not dumb, Aunt Leslie. Sooner or later they'll catch on."

"We know that, and you know that, but so far they don't know it," Leslie said with a grin, and Anna-Kristina laughed. "But maybe we'll let one of the kids choose the kind of memory they want me to dredge up. I'll have to do this completely alone, I guess. Father's not due back here till after they're supposed to be in bed for the night."

But just as Christian was returning to the study with the excited triplets surging down the stairs ahead of him, Roarke unexpectedly returned, surprising them all. "I thought you'd be late," Leslie said, watching him come into the room and remove his suit jacket, laying it over the back of one of the leather chairs.

Roarke glanced at her and smiled; for the first time, his gradually deteriorating condition was noticeable. "I am afraid it was necessary for me to plead fatigue," he admitted, taking a seat beside Anna-Kristina, who was holding Anastasia this time. "However, I was able to bring up your idea of an administrative staff to carry out the stewardship duties you otherwise wouldn't be able to handle, Leslie. Christian, your notes were invaluable; the idea met with unanimous approval."

Christian chuckled. "I suppose it's a good thing Leslie made me translate them, then. I must admit, I'm a bit surprised, but then again, perhaps the council is as worried as Leslie about the upcoming transition. Well, enough of that...Anna-Kristina says she deserves to be rewarded for choking down that serum, and has asked for another trip through memory."

"So you're just in time to help Aunt Leslie tell about one," Anna-Kristina added.

Roarke, looking amused, glanced at her and then at the triplets. "I suppose you three would like to hear another story as well."

"I want a scary one," Tobias blurted out as his sisters were nodding eagerly. "I wanna hear all about the fantasy that was the scariest, Mommy."

"Aren't there several contenders for that title?" Christian inquired with a grin.

"There are," Leslie said, grinning back. "But there are different kinds of scary. You can be scared by monsters, or by buckets of blood and guts, or by something even more insidious—mind tricks. And probably the creepiest fantasy I can remember witnessing had to do with one of two famous people we had here in the same weekend." She cleared her throat and peered at Roarke. "To be honest, though, I don't know if the kids should be hearing this one. I mean..."

"What's the problem with it?" Christian asked.

"There are some erotic elements to it," Leslie said carefully, deliberately using a word the triplets wouldn't be familiar with. "If they were teenagers, it might be different, but they're only five—and there are some things you just don't tell little kids. Look." She turned to the triplets, who were clearly on the cusp of protesting loudly. "I know you want a scary story, Tobias, and I've got plenty of good ones for you. But this one isn't good for little kids, and if you three promise to go to sleep tonight without a lot of fuss, I'll tell you all about a scary fantasy that involved a little girl not much older than you."

The children's expressions grew pouty; then Susanna asked, "What's _erotic_ mean?"

Roarke chuckled silently and shook his head, and Christian frowned. "It's a word that you're too young to know about yet," he said firmly. "Your mother just promised you a special story all your own for tomorrow. I think you should say that yes, you'll wait to hear that one, and then you're going to bed."

"But we don't have school tomorrow," Tobias protested.

"We'll be up early anyway," Leslie reminded him. "We have fantasies, remember? It's better you go to bed. Don't argue with your father. Come on, Anastasia, you too, sweetie." She gathered up the baby and smoothed her hair. "Let's go."

"Well, which one do we get to hear?" Karina finally asked as the triplets reluctantly trooped up the stairs behind her. "You said there's a little girl in it."

"And a scary bad guy, too," Leslie said, seeing Tobias light up at that. "I'll tell you that one tomorrow, because Daddy's already heard all about it. You can think of it as a special kind of ghost story just for the three of you."

"And not even Stina gets to hear it?" Susanna asked.

Leslie grinned. "Why? What if she wants to hear it?"

"That'd be mean to make her not hear it if she wants to," Karina said. "If she wants to, we should let her."

"Yeah," Tobias agreed, and Susanna made a face but subsided. Leslie had to smile; _at least she's smart enough to know when she's outnumbered!_ she thought.

When she returned downstairs alone, Christian eyed her. "You're going to tell them about that Maori god, I presume?"

"That's the plan," said Leslie. "Good memory, my love. Tobias and Karina stuck up for you if you want to join us and hear that one, Anna-Kristina."

Anna-Kristina laughed. "That was nice of them. But how about this one for the adults, now? You've made me so curious, I really want to hear this."

"You said there were two famous people?" Christian inquired.

"You might or might not have heard of them," said Leslie. "One was on an old 70s TV show, and the other was a ventriloquist. But here, let's tell you about it, and we'll see if you recognize the names."

§ § § -March 8, 1980

The tall, handsome man with the well-groomed mop of straight pale-blond hair was instantly familiar to all three of them as he popped out of the seaplane's hatch and started down the dock toward the clearing. "Is that Jungle Man?" Tattoo asked excitedly.

"Yes," Roarke assured him, glancing at his assistant and his ward and reflecting with private amusement that they'd probably both be looking for autographs that weekend. "Mr. David Farley, the actor, is no doubt better known as Jungle Man than by his own name."

"What has he been doing since the TV series ended?" Tattoo asked curiously.

"Very little, my friend. Playing the role of Jungle Man typecast him so badly that he hasn't been able to find any work at all for the last two years."

"But I read about him making personal appearances at fairs and things like that," said Tattoo, looking puzzled.

Leslie nodded. "Just last month I heard he was at some big comic convention in Los Angeles or somewhere. He's not actually a has-been."

"Yes, he was making his living that way, for a short time," Roarke agreed, "but now even that activity has been forbidden to him."

"Forbidden?" repeated Tattoo incredulously.

"What for?" Leslie wanted to know.

"Well, you see, the producers of his old series own the name 'Jungle Man', and they have obtained a court order barring Mr. Farley from ever appearing anywhere in his former role or costume." Leslie watched Farley peer anxiously around him and then stare at Roarke with a hopeful look. "So," Roarke continued, "it is Mr. Farley's fantasy to have one last grand adventure as Jungle Man...the role he came to love more than his own life."

Leslie and Tattoo looked at each other, wondering how far Farley's real-life existence had deteriorated; but before either could comment, out came their other guest—also an easily recognizable entertainer. "Ah...that young lady is Miss Mary Ann Carlin," said Roarke, as the pretty dark-haired woman—carrying a female dummy decked out in a stovepipe hat and the top half of a tuxedo—accepted assistance with disembarking. "Possibly the most famous ventriloquist in the world."

Leslie nodded in recognition, and Tattoo added, "I remember her—I saw her act in Paris. She's fantastic, she's wonderful!"

"How come she's here instead of out touring with her act?" Leslie asked.

"She's ostensibly here for an engagement in the Fantasy Island supper club," Roarke said as a good-looking man stepped out behind Mary Ann Carlin. "But she's actually come to us with a much more serious problem."

Tattoo looked incredulous. "What problem can she have? She's young and beautiful, and she's a great success!"

A little ominously Roarke explained, "Miss Carlin fears she's paying too high a price for that success. You see, every person has a complex system of behavioral patterns which we call personality. Some patterns are good, some bad." He sighed gently. "In the case of Miss Carlin, she has divided too many of her personality traits with her puppet, Valerie."

"Are you saying that part of her personality lives in her puppet?" asked Tattoo, wide-eyed with disbelief.

"Precisely," murmured Roarke. Leslie squinted at him, wondering how that could be possible; after all, Valerie was only a wooden ventriloquist's dummy...wasn't she?

"What's her fantasy, then?" she asked.

"To separate herself from this Jezebel half of her personality, at least for this weekend, so she can sort out her life and determine which of her personalities is dominant. What she must face is very dangerous." Leslie supposed, in silence, that he must be right; she had been watching Mary Ann, Valerie, and their male companion as they came into the clearing, and she'd seen Valerie's mouth move and Mary Ann addressing the puppet as though the two were having a conversation.

"It sounds like some kind of mental disorder to me," she ventured, daring a look at her guardian to see what his reaction would be.

"There's more to it than that," Roarke told her. "If she should fail, the Valerie part of her personality could become the instrument of her own destruction." As if compelled, all three of them shifted their eyes to Valerie—who, even despite being merely a wooden puppet, suddenly looked strangely—and sinisterly—alive.

The arrival of the native girl with Roarke's champagne flute startled Leslie and Tattoo out of their reverie, and they both managed smiles as he toasted their guests; but Leslie had a sneaky feeling that it was going to be one of their more unusual weekends. How, after all, could a puppet—just a carved and painted block of wood, after all was said and done—be the possessor of its own personality...or part of someone else's? It was a question she decided she preferred not to know the answer to.


	6. Chapter 6

§ § § - March 8, 1980

Mary Ann Carlin, it turned out, was so popular that she was actually scheduled for a performance within the hour of her arrival. Leslie, who was hoping to get Mary Ann's autograph before the ventriloquist got too deeply involved in her fantasy, accompanied Roarke to the supper club, where an eager audience had gathered and was enjoying Mary Ann's act with Valerie. It soon became clear to Leslie that Valerie was the "star" of the act and that Mary Ann, like most ventriloquists, played straight man; but as the act progressed, both she and Roarke began to get an idea of what Mary Ann was up against.

"How do you like my ring, darling?" Valerie purred in a sultry voice that didn't even sound like Mary Ann's, disguised or not. "Omar gave it to me. You remember Omar, the oil man? It was part of our divorce settlement."

"Oh, I remember," Mary Ann said. "Omar was your third husband."

"Fourth," Valerie corrected. "I made him a millionaire. Of course, he was a multimillionaire when I met him." She chortled, and the audience laughed in appreciation; Leslie and Roarke chuckled, glancing at each other and Tattoo, who had managed to arrive with a pretty blonde on his arm. Onstage Valerie added, "Oh, he wants to marry me again—to get back some of the money I married him for. Ooh...I think I'm getting a migraine."

"Valerie, I'm appalled that you'd marry somebody just for money!"

"No, no...you don't marry for money, you divorce for it!" At this line even Roarke let out a laugh; Leslie grinned, but already she thought Valerie came across as much too cynical. Roarke glanced at her, took in her expression in just that one second, and smiled at her in reassurance as Mary Ann spoke again.

"Is that all you ever think about, is men? Men and money?" she asked. "What about love? Love, and romance?" For some reason, Leslie noticed, the question caused Roarke's expression to become solemn; she looked back at Mary Ann, whose bewildered look seemed to be genuine.

"Oh, Mary Ann, you're so common!" scoffed Valerie. "Why must you be a wet blanket? Don't your juices flow?" Valerie's large blue eyes rolled back and forth as if in sheer disdain. "Honey, what you need is some young blood."

"I have young blood," protested Mary Ann.

Valerie leaned over and seemed to eye Mary Ann up and down before retorting cruelly, "Why keep it in such an old container?" The audience cackled in glee, and Tattoo chortled; but Roarke's expression remained dark, and Leslie began to get nervous stomach. Usually the ventriloquist got in at least as many barbs as the dummy, but that clearly wasn't true in this case; Mary Ann just seemed to serve as a target for Valerie. She leaned over and said as much to Roarke, who nodded.

"You're right, Leslie—very observant," he said softly. "And there you see, if only in a surface manner, the problem Miss Carlin faces."

"And speaking of old—" the puppet began, but Mary Ann covered her mouth with one hand.

"That's enough, Valerie," she said firmly, turning to the gathering. "Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for being such a nice audience; it was wonderful being with you!" She stepped off the stool and bowed, and the audience applauded for her, giving her a standing ovation as Mary Ann started offstage. Leslie thought she heard Valerie say, "Speak for yourself!" but wasn't quite sure; she and Tattoo both caught Roarke's nod, and Tattoo had a quick word with the blonde before he, Roarke and Leslie headed for the backstage area.

"Most enjoyable, Miss Carlin," Roarke said in greeting as Mary Ann and Valerie came down from the steps leading to the stage wings.

"I love your act," added Tattoo in a heartfelt voice.

Leslie smiled as Mary Ann thanked him, but was unable to do more than that. "Tattoo, Mr. Roarke, I'd like you to meet my manager, George Reardon." Reardon came forward, and greetings, handshakes and introductions were exchanged amongst them.

Then Valerie demanded, as if of her own volition, "Aren't you gonna introduce me, dummy?" This she directed at Mary Ann, and Leslie winced. "After all, _I _am the _better_ half of the act. I mean, who goes to see plain Jane?" Roarke and Tattoo looked at each other and caught Leslie's increasingly uncomfortable mien.

A little sheepishly, Mary Ann said, "This is my colleague, Valerie."

"How do you do, Valerie?" said Roarke politely.

Tattoo offered in a cheerful tone, "Hello, Valerie." Leslie murmured a greeting, with little enthusiasm; something about Valerie made her want to hide behind Roarke, as if to keep the dummy from noticing her.

"Say goodbye, Valerie," Mary Ann said then, taking the puppet to a large wooden box nearby. As Mary Ann lay her inside it, they all noticed Valerie grunt in annoyance and then mutter distinctly, "One of these days..."

Roarke frowned, watching, then offered, "If you are ready, one of our drivers will take you to your bungalow now, Miss Carlin."

"Of course," Mary Ann agreed, placing a lid on the puppet's box.

"I'll meet you later for lunch, and dancing, and riding," George Reardon suggested to Mary Ann then. "Let's have some fun."

"As soon as I get settled in," Mary Ann promised, and Reardon agreed, taking his leave with a few words to Roarke and Tattoo.

"Well...Mr. Reardon seems very fond of you, Miss Carlin," Roarke observed low as Reardon left.

Mary Ann smiled. "It's mutual."

"He doesn't seem to know why you're really here," Tattoo remarked.

"He doesn't. Part of my reason for wanting to get my head straightened out is so we can find out how we really feel about each other."

"I see," said Roarke. "And are you worried that he might find the Valerie part of you more intriguing, or appealing, or...fascinating, than the Mary Ann?"

Mary Ann started to answer, then reconsidered; finally she let the question go and simply shrugged a little. Roarke relented. "Since you've just come from a long plane trip and an immediate performance, I suggest you rest in your bungalow for the next hour or so; Tattoo and Leslie and I have other guests to attend to, and once that is done, I will meet you in your bungalow at that time."

"Can we make it two hours?" asked Mary Ann. "I'd like to have a shower."

Roarke agreed, and with that they took their leave, returning to the main house in a rover. "I told you her act was great," Tattoo said enthusiastically as they made the short drive back. "There's a good reason she's so popular. That Valerie just cracks me up."

"Valerie's creepy," said Leslie, as if in dissent. Roarke glanced at her in the rearview mirror; Tattoo twisted around in the front seat to stare at her.

"Why do you say that?" he wanted to know.

"It's like I told Mr. Roarke," she said. "Valerie gets all the laughs—and she does it by being cruel to Mary Ann. And Mary Ann doesn't get to return the favor. All she does is get the darts thrown at her, and that's not right or fair. It makes the act mean instead of funny, and I can't figure out why nobody else sees that. That audience was just hysterical."

"They think it's part of the act, Leslie," Roarke explained. "Very few people see the truth behind the façade. Somehow I doubt you would either, were you not previously aware of the reason Miss Carlin has come here."

"Maybe not, but it'd still bother me about Valerie getting all the insults in and being so mean about it. Valerie's a bully," Leslie announced, "and I hate bullies."

"Then you better not let Valerie know that," Tattoo said teasingly. She simply made a face at him, and he shrugged and turned back to face front.

In the study, David Farley was pacing the floor waiting for them; Roarke apologized for this, and Farley waved it off. "No problem. So...whose autograph book is that lying there on your desk?" he asked with a grin.

Leslie's face flamed as she admitted, "It's mine. I, um..."

Farley laughed and picked it up. "I don't mind signing it at all. What's your name?"

"Leslie Hamilton," she said, and Farley pulled a pen out of a holder on the desk and signed the book while Roarke gave him a quick explanation of Leslie's history.

"Wow," said Farley, handing Leslie the book. "Sorry to hear that, Leslie." She thanked him, trying to hide her fiery cheeks by reading the inscription on the page; it said, _To Leslie, with best wishes, David Farley the Jungle Man._

"Thanks for the autograph, Mr. Farley," she said, clearing her throat as she noted the amusement on the men's faces. "Anyway, you're not here to sign your name all over the place, I know that." The actor grinned at her, but his expression grew rapidly pensive and he began to meander toward the shuttered side windows, driving his hands into his pockets.

Roarke took the initiative, seeing that Farley's mood was beginning to swing south. "Well, Mr. Farley, are you ready for your fantasy?"

Farley turned to face him with some surprise. "Ready? I've been waiting for this chance for the past two years, ever since my television series was canceled."

"You keep in good shape," Tattoo commented.

"I trained for this role like a fighter trains for a shot at the championship. Maybe harder," Farley said. "Because in a way, I...I don't know, I kinda became the character. I _am_ Jungle Man." As if he had noticed the looks between the men and Leslie, he added, "Or at least, the old me was. Which, as the producers' lawyers said, makes me an obsolete man. It's kind of hard on the ego, being called obsolete at thirty-seven. You don't want to hear it, even if it is true."

Tattoo seemed to have an inspiration and turned to Roarke. "Boss...maybe we could help him to sue those producers."

"Thanks, Tattoo," Farley said before Roarke could speak, "but giving me this fling as Jungle Man is all I ask."

Roarke smiled at that. "Oh, your fantasy will be more than just an acting 'fling', Mr. Farley. It will be real."

Farley looked surprised at that, then seemed to accept it, a smile breaking out on his own features. "I'm in your hands. The other characters from my television series—will they be there too?"

Roarke smiled again and sat up. "Mara, your wife, yes; your enemy, Derek Haskell, the White Hunter; Prester John, your faithful native friend; and Princess...uh..."

"Rima," Tattoo supplied eagerly, and Leslie grinned.

"Princess Rima, yes," Roarke said, nodding.

"Who wanted to, uh, you and her...you know what I mean," Tattoo added with a broad smile of recollection. This time Leslie giggled a little.

Farley gave her an understanding smile. "They sound kinda corny, don't they. I don't know, maybe they were." He settled into a club chair. "Our stories were just simple—good versus evil. The audience loved it."

"We all did," Tattoo agreed. "I still watch the reruns." Roarke released a faint huff of amusement and regarded Tattoo with a smile; Tattoo caught it and returned it, and it made Leslie smile in turn. She had always been in awe of the close brotherly relationship Roarke and Tattoo seemed to have.

"That's why I need this fantasy," Farley said then, voice soft but intense. "If I can become that character one more time...being strong, confident, able to handle things...maybe when I come back, I can put the pieces of my own life together. If it doesn't work..." His voice trailed off, and an anguished look crept over his features as he lowered his head and pulled in a few deep breaths. Leslie tipped her head to one side, wondering again what he had been through to be in this much pain.

Tattoo gave Roarke a look of appeal, and Roarke glanced at him, then arose with an almost abrupt mien. "You understand, Mr. Farley, your fantasy has been one of the most difficult we've ever attempted, hasn't it, you two?"

"Right, boss!" Tattoo agreed, and Leslie nodded.

"Yes," Roarke went on, coming to take the other club chair beside Farley, "the people from your past whom I just mentioned will be there, alive, in the same way that other famous fictional characters—Oliver Twist, Sherlock Holmes, Sir Galahad, and Hamlet—can come alive: with motives, passions and honesties true to themselves."

"I'll pick up where I left off?" Farley asked.

"Not quite," Tattoo said. "They've continued lives of their own since the series ended."

"So you must understand, Mr. Farley, you will have no script to follow, no stuntmen in dangerous situations. You will have only yourself to rely on; and since it will all be real...if you are killed during your adventure, Mr. Farley, you will be dead a very long time."

Farley seemed unfazed by this last; his features took on a look of wonder. "Mara, all of it, real...I couldn't ask for more than that, Mr. Roarke. When do I start?"

"Right now," said Leslie with a smile.

Roarke nodded and arose, gesturing at the time-travel room at the foot of the stairs. "Just through that door."

Farley looked at him, at Tattoo, at Leslie, then drew in an anticipatory breath and strode to the door, opening it, then pausing to stare back at them. When he didn't say anything, Tattoo offered, "Good luck, Jungle Man."

With a small smile at that, Farley turned and slipped fully inside, closing the door. Leslie loitered beside the chair Roarke had been sitting in, staring at the door while her guardian and his assistant retreated behind the desk once more. After a moment Roarke noticed and inquired, "Is something wrong, Leslie?"

"I was just thinking a few minutes ago," she murmured, without taking her eyes off the door. "When he said maybe he could figure out how to put his real life back together after this fantasy ends. He must have been through some really awful things. He looked so unhappy...really lost, like he..." She hesitated, then peered at Roarke and said with some reluctance, "Like he thought his only other option was suicide."

"You really think so?" Tattoo asked, looking startled.

Roarke settled back in his chair. "Mr. Farley went through a very bitter divorce in the past year, and it's no secret that he has had severe financial difficulties in the wake of the cancellation of 'Jungle Man'. The divorce merely exacerbated that. His agent dropped him when he could no longer find acting work, and now he has had even appearances in the guise of his character taken from him."

"Wow," Leslie murmured, biting her lip.

"People have bounced back from worse problems than that," said Tattoo. "I'm sure when his fantasy's over, he'll have some more confidence in himself."

"I hope you're right," said Leslie, turning to him, "because the way he talked, being Jungle Man one final time is his last hope."

Roarke regarded her with interest, then smiled gently. "You may well be right, Leslie," he said. "For now, suppose you take all the outgoing mail to the post office for me, hm? Tattoo, I have several errands I need you to run; a driver is waiting out front for you. There's a delivery down at the ferry dock that must be picked up, and I'd like you to deliver the regular restaurant orders to the fishing village and the pineapple plantation."

"Got it, boss," Tattoo agreed, and he and Leslie left together, with Leslie toting a post-office bucket filled with envelopes and a few packages. Tattoo's driver dropped her off at the post office, where she handed over the bucket and then returned to the main house on foot; when she got there, Roarke was preparing to leave.

"Is it already time to go to Mary Ann Carlin's bungalow?" she asked.

Roarke nodded. "If you wish to get Miss Carlin's autograph, perhaps this would be the best time to do so," he said. She nodded and grabbed the book from where it still lay on Roarke's desk, and followed him out to another rover parked beside the fountain.


	7. Chapter 7

§ § § - March 8, 1980

In just a few minutes they had reached the bungalow in question; Roarke drew in a breath before knocking on the door, and after about ten seconds Mary Ann Carlin opened it. "Oh! Please come in," she said cordially, gesturing to the room's interior.

"Thank you, Miss Carlin," Roarke said, entering the room with Leslie close behind him. Mary Ann smiled at the girl.

"Hello, Leslie," she said.

"Hi, Miss Carlin," Leslie said, a little bashful. Roarke paused to regard his ward with an amused little smile; shy though she genuinely was around their guests, famous and otherwise, she somehow always managed to win them over enough to sign her autograph book, and this was true of Mary Ann Carlin as well. Leslie thanked her and glanced at Roarke, then said a little sheepishly, "Sorry for holding up the whole works, Mr. Roarke."

Roarke chuckled. "It's a small thing." Of Mary Ann he asked, "Are the accommodations satisfactory?"

"Yes, they're beautiful, Mr. Roarke," she replied enthusiastically.

Roarke smiled broadly with appreciation. "Oh, I am very pleased."

"But what happens now?" Mary Ann inquired.

For a moment Roarke hesitated, glancing at her, noticing that Valerie had been seated in a chair near the window—perhaps deliberately. Leslie, still standing near the glass-topped coffee table in a conversation nook to the right of the small entry foyer, eyed the puppet warily; but Valerie didn't move, as if she had to draw all her energy from Mary Ann and otherwise was incapable of acting on her own.

"First, I must ask you if you are sure you want to go through with this," said Roarke, studying Mary Ann with concern.

"Oh yes," Mary Ann assured him.

"Are you willing to risk the many possible dangers that will confront you?"

Mary Ann met his gaze and said quietly, "I have to." They all looked at the puppet then, and Mary Ann took a few steps toward the chair, staring pensively at it. "Valerie's influence and personality frighten me, Mr. Roarke. I'm afraid she wants to take possession of me. And I've gotta get her out of my mind for forty-eight hours so I can decide what to do with my life!"

"That is precisely the danger," Roarke said. "You see, I can accomplish what you wish only by making an extension of your split personality."

"What do you mean?" Mary Ann asked, confused.

"I must make the division absolutely complete, by giving life—" Roarke caught himself at Mary Ann's taken-aback reaction, and corrected, "_Apparent_ life—to your other half."

They looked at the still, silent puppet again, and Mary Ann ventured finally, "You mean...bring Valerie to life?" Roarke nodded solemnly, and Mary Ann's face split into a disbelieving grin. "But that's impossible; she's a wooden dummy!"

"Oh, he can do it," said Leslie, catching Mary Ann's surprised attention; the girl bit her lip and slanted a glance at Roarke, mumbling, "I just wish you didn't have to."

Roarke cast her a brief glance of reassurance before focusing on Mary Ann again and explaining gently, "Miss Carlin, this is Fantasy Island. Things are possible here which can occur no other place." Again Mary Ann eyed Valerie, and Roarke added, "I'm sorry, but there is no other way—so you must decide if you are willing to risk it."

"Risk it? I'll do anything to be completely free of her for a weekend."

"Very well," Roarke murmured assent, and with that he turned to face the chair, and the puppet, head-on. Clutching her autograph book, Leslie edged over to stand beside her guardian, watching him carefully, though without saying a word; though she had never seen him do something like this before, she knew this would require full concentration on his part. She also had no doubt he could indeed bring Valerie to life, and her dread of seeing a living, breathing, flesh-and-blood Valerie was enough to glue her to his side. Mary Ann gave her a questioning look, and she smiled faintly, putting a finger briefly to her lips.

Roarke released a breath, settled himself and stared intently at Valerie, without moving or acknowledging either Leslie or Mary Ann. The room dimmed, with Valerie's chair and the three of them in pools of soft light; Roarke frowned a bit in concentration, never breaking his nearly unblinking stare. For a long moment, no one moved; then the room darkened entirely, and Leslie gasped softly to herself.

Flickering, pulsing dashes, swirls and spirals of light in rainbow colors spangled the room as if they were in a discothéque; again Leslie turned her attention to her guardian and thus noticed Mary Ann, on his other side, look up and around them in bewilderment at the lights all over the walls and ceiling. Roarke was statue-still, gaze fastened on Valerie as if the puppet were all that existed. Two spots of light highlighted Valerie's eyes, flashing in rotating red, blue and green at such speed the individual colors were all but indiscernible. The disco colors pulsed and swirled; Leslie even thought she heard some sort of ominous sound effects to go with it, but the room was unearthly quiet otherwise, and she began to inhale and exhale deeply, deliberately, to stave off the fluttering in her gut. Mary Ann spared her one last glance before her eyes were drawn to Valerie, where they remained.

With an abrupt hiss, three glacier-blue lights, like lasers, snapped on, centering on Valerie's eyes and the oversized _faux_ gem on one of the puppet's hands that served as the suggestion of a ring; the lights from Valerie's eyes seemed to connect with two identical lights blazing from Mary Ann's eyes. The ventriloquist herself was caught as still as Roarke, gaze locked on Valerie; she didn't even seem to breathe.

The lasers vanished from Mary Ann's eyes and she shifted her stance as if unaware anything had happened; but the lights remained on Valerie, their eerie pale blue making Valerie's head look like a skull. Leslie swallowed and looked up at Roarke, but he still hadn't moved, was still glaring hard at the puppet.

At last the laser lights faded, followed slowly by the colored disco effects, and the room fell pitch-black and silent once again. After a few seconds, normal lighting returned, and Leslie squinted briefly before focusing on the figure in the chair. No longer did it contain a wooden puppet; now it held the figure of a coldly beautiful brunette, dressed in Valerie's top hat and tuxedo jacket and ruffled blouse. She sat in the puppet's exact pose, gazing doll-like at the opposite wall, with the faintest of smiles.

Mary Ann asked in almost a whisper, "Is she really alive, Mr. Roarke?"

"Yes," Roarke murmured, his gaze still glued to Valerie. Leslie found herself staring at Valerie too, on her guard, wondering how anyone who was truly alive could sit there like a doll, so still and vacant. Then Roarke turned to Mary Ann. "And how do you feel, Miss Carlin?" he queried softly.

Mary Ann lifted her shoulders and gazed back at him, her expression one of quiet joy. "Wonderful. I've never felt freer or better."

Roarke cracked a small, brief smile. "I am so pleased."

"Oh, and I don't want to waste a minute of it. In fact, George asked me to have lunch with him and take a tour around the island. I'm gonna find him right now." Mary Ann took a last look at Valerie, then departed the bungalow with a smile. Roarke and Leslie watched her pull the door closed behind her.

"She's a very stupid girl," said a soft, icy voice from the corner, the second the door had shut after Mary Ann.

Roarke looked sharply at Valerie, who still sat in the same position, but now without the smile. Their gazes met as she turned to stare at him. "No," he contradicted quietly. "A very nice girl. And very vulnerable."

Leslie inched a little closer to Roarke as Valerie got up and approached them, her face expressionless, yet conveying a frozen malice that seemed to radiate from her. "But she really didn't understand what you said," Valerie remarked calmly. "This is a contest to see whose personality is dominant—hers, or mine."

Roarke nodded. "That's true," he conceded.

"She thinks she might want to leave this island without me." Valerie's gaze shifted at last, to the door Mary Ann had just departed through. "She's half right. I think only one of us will leave...and it'll be me—even if I have to kill her."

For a very long minute or two Roarke and Valerie stared at each other, as if in a contest of their own, blue eyes and dark ones locked together as though each trying to bore into the other, to erode the other down. Leslie, beginning to feel mesmerized, squeezed her own eyes shut and lowered her head; and for the first time Valerie seemed to notice her standing there. She eyed the girl up and down, noticed the book Leslie still held, and smirked. "Did you have sweet little Mary Ann sign that?" she asked.

Startled, Leslie looked up into Valerie's frozen blue eyes, and automatically nodded, unable to say a word. Valerie snickered; it was not a pleasant, or even amused, sound. "Good thing you did. That might be the last time she ever signs an autograph." With that, she mockingly doffed her hat at Roarke. "See you later on."

Only when she had left the bungalow did Roarke seem to relax; he turned to Leslie and stilled again, surprise on his features. "Did you know you're shivering?"

Leslie hugged herself, eyes fixed on the chair where Valerie had been sitting. "She's...she's like a walking iceberg, Mr. Roarke."

Roarke nodded, gathering her into a hug. "I'm afraid so, Leslie. But we have no hand in the events to come. Only Miss Carlin and Valerie can determine the outcome of their contest—and Miss Carlin can rely on no one but herself if she is to win."

‡ ‡ ‡

Early that evening, with Mana'olana helping out at the hotel restaurant after Jean-Claude, the irascible French chef there, had called Roarke insisting on help with feeding a crowd of revelers at a wedding reception, Roarke took Leslie and Tattoo over to the pond restaurant for the evening meal. "Order whatever you like," he said, gesturing at the menus on their table. "Think of it as a special treat."

"Especially you, Leslie," Tattoo teased. "You won't have Mana'olana on your back telling you to eat till you explode."

They all laughed at that, and perused menus for several minutes before making their decisions and relaying their orders. The waitress, a blonde whose hair was cropped somewhat similarly to the style of skater Dorothy Hamill's and who was clad in a strapless bikini top and a short sarong skirt, asked what they wanted to drink; again, Roarke told them to order what they wanted, and Leslie decided to try an exotic tropical punch consisting of several island fruits—papaya, mango, pineapple, guava and passion fruit, along with a few she had never tried or even heard of, such as rambutan, dragon fruit and something called acai berry. Tattoo went for a couple of fingers of bourbon, and Roarke opted for a low-alcohol rosé wine. The waitress delivered these in short order and told them their meals should arrive in about twenty minutes, then departed.

"I'll be starving by then," Leslie murmured.

"Mana'olana would love to hear you say that," Tattoo said, teasing again.

"Don't tell her, or I'll sic Chester on you," Leslie threatened with a grin.

Roarke laughed. "Sometimes I think you two are brother and sister, the way you carry on. Did all the deliveries come through as anticipated, my friend?"

"No problem, boss, except for one thing. Mr. Sensei at the ferry dock said they told him that shipment of weird bird feathers you ordered last month was delayed. He thinks it should be here by the middle of next week, but he's gonna check and get back to us."

"Good, good," said Roarke.

"Weird bird feathers?" Leslie repeated.

"They are for a fantasy I have scheduled for later in the season," said Roarke. "I can't brook much more delay, though; those feathers will be needed soon if the item they're to be a part of is to be ready in time. I'll call Mr. Sensei myself on Wednesday." Tattoo nodded, and they fell silent for a few minutes, sipping at their drinks.

Leslie glanced idly toward the entrance and stared when she saw a familiar figure pause there before entering. Valerie had changed from her half-tux to a close-fitting, low-cut black evening gown, and admittedly looked stunning in it; but her icy beauty had warmed very little, if at all. Roarke noticed Leslie staring, followed her gaze and froze in the act of lifting his glass to his lips. Tattoo in turn caught sight of him and looked around as well, his eyebrows shooting up at sight of Valerie. Several men leaving the restaurant passed her, eyeing her with naked lasciviousness, but she seemed not to see them.

They watched Valerie stroll through the restaurant, heading deliberately for a table near the back, where they could now see George Reardon was sitting, clearly waiting for Mary Ann Carlin. Valerie leaned over the back of a chair and said something; he stood up, they had a few words, and then she reached out and pushed him back into his chair with her hand on his shirt placket.

"Isn't there something we can do?" Leslie asked Roarke at last.

"Leslie, have you forgotten what I told you in Miss Carlin's bungalow?" Roarke admonished her. "Not only can we not do anything, it's not our place. It is Miss Carlin's battle to fight, and win—if she has the strength."

She sighed, and as if drawn, her gaze shifted back to the rear table—just as Valerie got to her feet, pulling George Reardon to his and gently tugging him along with her to the entrance and out the door. Reardon didn't resist; he looked a little puzzled, but he put up no protest, and they even saw him smile a bit as Valerie towed him out.

"Who was that?" Tattoo asked.

"Valerie," said Leslie, and at his blank look, elaborated, "You know—Mary Ann Carlin's puppet."

Tattoo did a double-take and stared at the empty entranceway as if he could still see Valerie through the walls. "That was Valerie?" Eyes nearly round, he released a long, low wolf whistle. "That was one sexy chick!"

Leslie snorted and muttered, "You're just hopeless." Roarke chuckled, but Leslie could see the concern lurking in his dark eyes, and had a horrible feeling she knew what Valerie's intentions were toward George Reardon.

It was full dark when they got home; Tattoo glanced at the clock and decided to go back to his cottage and retire for the night, wishing Roarke and Leslie a good night's rest as he departed. It was nearly time for "King's Castle", Leslie's favorite show, and she was about to make her excuses to go up and watch when Roarke paused in front of his desk, frowning slightly as if having just belatedly remembered something. "What's wrong?" Leslie asked. "I was going up to watch 'King's Castle', but if you need me..."

Roarke came back to the moment and shook his head, smiling. "No, that's all right, Leslie. Go on and watch if you like; there shouldn't be any problems. I'm simply going to make a check on Mr. Farley."

"Oh. Well, I hope he's doing okay," Leslie said, and Roarke smiled, watching her go up the stairs before slipping through into the time-travel room.

Some few seconds later he settled down on the tiny porch of a little hut, raised on stilts off the dusty ground; the dried palm fronds that comprised its walls fluttered slightly in a soft breeze. He had to wait only a moment before David Farley popped out from between the two entrance flaps, strapping a thin leather belt around his middle; he seemed to sense something, looked around and blinked. "Mr. Roarke!"

"I had a strong feeling you wished to see me, Mr. Farley," Roarke said.

Farley let out a breath and his shoulders sagged. "Look, it's not working out. It was bad enough when my real life was wiped out, but...but now my fantasy life is being wiped out too! Things've gone to hell here with everybody I care about. I—I can't even explain why I've been gone for two years. Not to Prester John and especially not to Mara." Roarke nodded, and Farley turned away in defeat. "How could they understand?"

"You disappoint me, Mr. Farley," Roarke remarked. "It seems you've failed."

Farley's head whipped around and he gaped. "Failed? Well, it's not my fault—"

"Why, you told me you were Jungle Man," Roarke interrupted him. "I believed you. But you are thinking and talking like Mr. David Farley, unemployed actor."

"Wait a minute—!" Farley began.

Roarke overrode him, arising. "Do you wish to leave Fantasy Island and leave those people to their fate? Is that your concept of the character you said you had become?" Farley started to shake his head and say something, and Roarke pressed him, _"Is_ it?"

Farley hesitated, then looked away, shame settling over his poster-idol-handsome features. Roarke relented a bit and resumed his seat, observing, "The alternative is to continue your fantasy, to _be_ Jungle Man—a man of action, and above all, courage. A man who lets his actions speak for themselves, and as I recall in nearly three hundred episodes, a man who never explained anything to anybody." Farley seemed to be considering these words, and Roarke smiled. "Isn't that the simple directness you and the audience loved?"

Farley stared at his feet for a moment, but still remained silent; once more Roarke arose, gesturing to the dusty little clearing in front of the hut and the abundant, trackless rain forest trying to encroach upon it. "There is Jungle Man's world," he said. "Your world—if you make it yours."

Farley turned back to stare at him for a moment, then gazed out into the trees, drifting toward the ladder that led off the little porch into the clearing. "You know, Mr. Roarke, I'm beginning to see what you mean," he mused, half to himself. That was more than enough for Roarke, who smiled to himself, turned and departed without a sound.


	8. Chapter 8

§ § § - March 9, 1980

Roarke, Leslie and Tattoo had barely finished breakfast on Sunday morning when they were visited by Mary Ann Carlin. "Miss Carlin, are you all right?" Roarke inquired, rising from his chair. Leslie and Tattoo, both stricken by the paleness of their guest's face and her weary, haunted look, exchanged startled glances.

"Is this the way it was supposed to work out?" Mary Ann asked him—not in anger, but in anguish, in pain. "Mr. Roarke, I've had two confrontations with Valerie already, and I don't see how I can win when she has all the advantages."

"What do you mean by that?" Tattoo asked.

"Everything Valerie does, I can sense," said Mary Ann, shuddering and wrapping her arms around herself as though the temperature had dropped forty degrees. "When she inflicts pain on herself, I feel it. Every emotion she experiences, I feel it. And last night, she...she was with...with someone, all night...and I felt her passion too." Roarke and Tattoo traded glances; Leslie's eyes popped with sudden understanding, and she pressed a fist against her mouth, trying not to imagine what it must have felt like. "I feel everything she feels—and she feels nothing, Mr. Roarke. Nothing at all!"

"Oh my god," Leslie whispered, barely audibly, against her fist.

"She's using it against me," Mary Ann cried, bracing her hands on the desktop and begging Roarke for help with her eyes. "I don't know how on earth I can fight a weapon like that. She has all the power and I have nothing!"

"Miss Carlin," Roarke said with deliberation, slowly rising from his chair, "please remind me, if you will: who here is the puppet, and who the puppeteer?"

Mary Ann stared at him in disbelief. "Mr. Roarke, you can't be serious!"

"Valerie is alive at this moment only through your desire to separate her from yourself," Roarke said, "but she is nevertheless still a part of you, because she embodies all those qualities you find repellent in yourself, all those baser emotions and instincts that you keep under strict control every day of your life. You feel Valerie's physical pain, while she does not feel yours, because you are the living, breathing human being; she is merely the puppet—the dummy, if you like—given temporary animation. She feels nothing of your experiences because in truth, she is still that wooden dummy—and, endowed with all your basest emotions and none of the desirable ones, she is as impervious to others' pain as a psychopath. In a manner of speaking, that's what Valerie is. Your only hope of defeating her is to use that knowledge against her. As I said, you are the puppet master."

"Then why do I feel like the puppet?" demanded Mary Ann.

Roarke smiled faintly for a moment. "Because you don't yet see your own strength, Miss Carlin. It is within your power to defeat Valerie, using all your resources. It has been said that evil tends to triumph over good unless good is very, very careful. Be careful that you do not allow Valerie the upper hand, Miss Carlin. Remember your true roles, and take your strength from that—for only the good in you can triumph over the evil in her."

Mary Ann stood gawking openmouthed at him; they watched her absorbing his words, pondering them, slowly regaining a sense of control as they sank in and she began to exhibit determination. "You're right," she murmured, closing her eyes briefly and drawing in a fortifying breath. "The only thing I can do is confront her."

Roarke nodded. "Exactly. But remember, Miss Carlin, be very careful—for though you are the puppet master, her power is still formidable."

"I will, Mr. Roarke. Thank you," Mary Ann said softly, and with a quick smile for Leslie and Tattoo, she departed quietly, head high, face grim.

"She...she felt Valerie's pain and...and _passion?"_ Leslie finally breathed, gaping at Roarke. "That must've been..." Unable to find the words, she shook her head hard and made a face, then speared Tattoo with a look. "I told you—Valerie's creepy!"

Tattoo sighed. "Yeah, yeah, I know, you're right. Too bad that creepy personality had to come in such a gorgeous package. What a waste."

Roarke eyed him with amusement; Leslie snorted. "You'll never change, will you."

"Enough," Roarke suggested then, chuckling. "You both have tasks to occupy yourselves with, so I suggest you get started."

The day drifted quietly along; Leslie fielded a couple of calls from her friends in regard to homework, but otherwise she was busy going through mail all afternoon. Tattoo left on another run to the ferry dock around four-thirty, and Roarke set aside his ledger and took a look at his gold pocket watch. "I believe it's time," he murmured.

Leslie looked up. "Time for what?"

He stood up. "The final confrontation between Valerie and Miss Carlin. I'll be at the supper club should you need me."

"No, I'm going too," Leslie said stubbornly. "I...I have to find out for myself if Miss Carlin can really beat Valerie. And if she does, I want to see it happen. I want to see that creepy iceberg puppet get exactly what she deserves."

Roarke regarded her with amused interest as she spoke; when she finished, he let out a soft, voiceless chuckle and nodded. "Very well—but remember, this is solely Miss Carlin's battle to win. You are not to interfere in any way, no matter how much you may wish to lend assistance. Neither you nor I would have any bearing on the outcome; we don't have the power. That is Miss Carlin's and no one else's."

Leslie nodded. "I understand, Mr. Roarke."

"Good, then we'd better hurry." He led the way out and she followed at a half-run, dreading what might be coming but hoping to see Valerie get hers.

They came in on an empty dining room, tables set as though for a meal; there was a brazier burning a few yards away from the stage. Valerie was strolling around telling cruel jokes at Mary Ann's expense, while Mary Ann herself sat in a staged pose in a chair under the spotlight, staring blankly to one side, like the puppet Valerie had been. Valerie, giggling, rounded the chair and remarked, "Talk about a figure!" She knelt to address an invisible audience. "This morning she came into my room and tried on my bikini. Have you ever seen a pair of pliers wrapped in a Band-Aid?"

Leslie winced, though Mary Ann showed no reaction; Roarke frowned and glanced around the dining room, as though he could hear the laughter that Valerie must be reacting to. Onstage, Valerie stood up again, lifted one leg and rested a stiletto-shod foot on the arm of Mary Ann's chair. "Take a good look, honey. When you're gone," she said, stroking her leg, "these will be my sole means of support."

"Mr. Roarke..." Leslie whispered urgently.

He turned to her with a fierce frown that startled her and shook his head, putting a finger to her lips. She subsided, but not before giving him a "do something!" look that only made him raise that same finger in a gesture for her to wait. Meantime, Valerie stepped off the stage, still giggling happily. "You know," she remarked, "sometimes I think Mary Ann wouldn't even move a splinter unless I told her to." As she spoke, she strode toward the brazier; Roarke caught sight of her movement and turned his attention back to the unfolding farce Valerie was staging. "Watch this," Valerie said and swept one hand out toward the flames, deliberately holding it just above the fire.

Mary Ann leaped from the chair with a shriek of pain, making Leslie start; Valerie beamed, as if she had just scored some kind of victory. At that point Roarke caught Mary Ann's still-shocked gaze from the stage; the ventriloquist stared at him, at her hand, then back at him once more. The next moment, Leslie heard Roarke's voice in her head, even though he didn't actually speak: _"Fight her, Miss Carlin. Find your own dominant strengths and traits. Believe in yourself, Mary Ann—it's the only way. Fight her. Break her spell."_

And as if compelled, Mary Ann opened her eyes, lowered the injured hand, and glared into the dining room at the laughing figure beside the brazier. "I've won, Valerie," she said loudly and determinedly. Valerie, still grinning triumphantly, turned to peer back at her in amused disdain, but Mary Ann advanced on her, eyes glittering with a burgeoning rage at all Valerie's cruelties and deliberate harm. "It's all over."

Valerie's face grew cold and cruel again; she reached out and lifted a two-pronged fork with a long wooden handle. "Put that down!" Mary Ann commanded.

"I'll kill you," Valerie said, so softly they almost didn't hear her, and lifted the fork with clear intent. Mary Ann dodged aside, and the fight was on as Valerie dove for Mary Ann, brandishing the fork. The two fell over a table and onto the floor, rolling over and over, both attempting to gain the upper hand; somehow they climbed to their feet as Roarke and Leslie watched, and Valerie raised the fork to stab Mary Ann. Mary Ann grabbed Valerie's wrist and pushed back with all her strength; Leslie's hand flew to her mouth at Valerie's maniacal look, huge-eyed and filled with murderous fury.

But Mary Ann was fighting for her life, and that lent her the strength she needed to overcome Valerie's deadly intent and somehow cause her to fling the fork away somewhere behind her. They tumbled to the floor again, rolling back and forth, now both with hands at each other's throats in a desperate battle. But somehow, Leslie realized that Valerie was losing her strength, as if the magic that had brought her to life for the weekend was losing its potency; Mary Ann gained dominance and wrapped her hands solidly around Valerie's neck, thumbs pressing into her windpipe without mercy. Even from where they stood, Roarke and Leslie could hear Valerie struggling for air, choking under Mary Ann's grip, her throat beginning to rattle. Valerie's body convulsed a last two or three times, then fell still; her head flopped to one side, and Leslie gasped again despite herself—for Valerie was once again nothing but an inert wooden dummy.

Mary Ann released her grip on the puppet, settled back on her heels and moved aside; ever so gently, she turned Valerie's head to face upwards, then lifted her with great care and moved with slow steps to the brazier. Deliberately she laid the wooden doll atop the flames, which instantly began to lick at the tuxedo Valerie wore.

Roarke, with Leslie a few steps behind, came out from behind the bar and the macramé hanging there, pausing beside Mary Ann, who had wrapped her arms around herself again. Without taking her eyes off the puppet, Mary Ann moved into Roarke's embrace and murmured, "I'm free, Mr. Roarke. Thank you."

"You're a most courageous young woman, Miss Carlin," Roarke replied, patting her back and smiling. His gaze shifted to Valerie, whose face had begun to blacken as the flames found their way toward her head. On the other side of the brazier stood Leslie, staring as if hypnotized at the puppet's enormous blue glass eyes. Roarke moved around the brazier to lift Leslie's chin with two fingers. "Are you all right?"

Leslie blinked up at him, then nodded, though with uncertain motions. She turned to Mary Ann and asked, "Didn't you...weren't you ever scared of Valerie, even way before all this happened?"

Mary Ann considered it. "Well, not so much in the beginning. I guess I'd begun to notice it only in the last year or so, that she was...taking on some bad qualities. Why?"

"Because she's so creepy," Leslie said, pulling in a breath, hoping Mary Ann would see what she meant. Again she gazed at Valerie. "I mean...I don't know. When she was alive, I never saw anyone so cold and cruel. But even as a wooden dummy, she's still creepy."

"Leslie," Roarke said gently, noticing the girl's eyes trained inexorably on Valerie, "tell me what you really see."

Both he and Mary Ann watched the fire in the brazier reflect itself in her eyes; Mary Ann gave Roarke a quizzical look, but Roarke was watching his ward. After a moment she spoke, as though entranced. "It looks like a skeleton," she murmured, eyes now unfocused. "The skeleton of the house..."

At that Roarke turned her head away from the sight altogether and gazed into her eyes till she focused on him. "Leslie," he reminded her, "Valerie is only a wooden puppet, no more than that. You ascribe to her the qualities that Miss Carlin gave her in her act; Valerie, in and of herself, is merely a doll, with no emotions of her own."

Leslie shivered and shook her head. "I'm just glad Miss Carlin won," she said in a trembling voice, and hugged Roarke hard, burying her face in his jacket. Mary Ann rounded the brazier and laid a hand on Leslie's shoulder, and Roarke smiled at her.

‡ ‡ ‡

"Come and take a walk with me, child," Roarke suggested about half an hour after the evening meal. "I think you can use a little fresh air. It's time to bring Mr. Farley back."

Leslie agreed; truth be told, she wanted a chance to clear her head. She kept seeing the burning puppet in the brazier, and had a feeling she'd be having nightmares that night, but for the moment she wanted only to distract herself. She found herself breathing in the brisk salt air as she and Roarke walked along a clifftop trail that eventually turned away from the ocean view and led into the jungle; another ten minutes or so of walking and they suddenly came into a small clearing with a grass hut on stilts at its back edge. In front of it stood a native man, a pretty Polynesian woman, and David Farley; Leslie assumed the former two were Prester John and Mara.

"It is time to go, Mr. Farley," Roarke said. "Your fantasy is over."

Farley and Mara looked at each other, and Farley seemed to come to a decision. "Mr. Roarke...I just can't leave." Roarke gave him a surprised, questioning look, and Farley explained with quiet appeal, "Mara's my wife, and I love her. These are my people." Prester John smiled slightly at that. "If I go with you, I go back to being a pathetic, obsolete human being. That would kill me."

Roarke regarded him assessingly. "I see. Well, it's a highly unusual request; but, if you wish to stay here, it can be done." Leslie's mouth fell open with shock, and she gaped up at him as if he had just fallen out of a UFO. As Farley and Mara exchanged delighted looks, Roarke added, "You realize, of course, that such a decision is irrevocable."

Farley looked at a beaming Mara one more time, then said, "We wouldn't have it any other way."

Roarke smiled acquiescence. "In that case, goodbye, Mr. Far—" He caught himself and amended, "Jungle Man." Farley smiled broadly at that; Roarke made farewells to Mara and to Prester John, who presented him with a shallow bow and even smiled at Leslie. "And good luck." He turned to Leslie, put a hand between her shoulder blades, and guided his astounded ward out of the clearing, leaving David Farley forever transformed into Jungle Man. "Homeward we go, my child."

Speechless for a large part of their walk, Leslie found her voice only when they were back on the clifftop trail. "Did you really let him stay in his fantasy? You were serious when you said you could do that? How can you, when it's only a fantasy? Why would you do that for him and not somebody else?"

"Leslie, Leslie, that's enough," Roarke said, half laughing. "Let me just say that, on an extreme few occasions, there are extenuating circumstances, and they are such that the alternative would do no more than cause great harm. This was the case with David Farley; his life holds no promise in the real world, and stepping fully and permanently into his role as Jungle Man will give him the chance to live out that life as a happy and productive human being. And I suspect he'll find the happiness with Mara that he never did with his ex-wife in the real world."

"But imagine what he's leaving behind!" protested Leslie. "Doesn't he have parents? Brothers and sisters? What about his house and his stuff? Doesn't he have any friends? Even his fans! And now that he's disappeared off the face of the earth forever..."

"Mr. Farley lost nearly everything in the divorce, and he has no immediate living relatives. If anyone asks questions, I will explain in a manner that will make it clear that no harm has come to him and that he is happy where he is now. As for you, kindly cease your questioning. There are some things you'll have to learn to take on faith, for as you surely must recall by now, you are on Fantasy Island—and almost anything is possible!"

"Yeah, well..." Leslie sighed and finally grinned at him. "Okay, okay. But don't be surprised if you deny somebody else the same request and I jump on your case for it." Roarke gave her a look that made her break into giggles, and he chuckled back, shaking his head.

§ § § - March 10, 1980

"Thank you, Mr. Roarke, for saving my life," Mary Ann Carlin said at the plane dock Monday morning, her arm in George Reardon's.

Roarke smiled acknowledgment while Tattoo asked, "What are you going to do now? Are you going to start all over again with a new kind of puppet?"

"Puppet?" Reardon repeated and slanted a teasing glance at Mary Ann. "Yes, well, I've heard husbands called that before." She smiled at him, and Leslie snickered behind a hand as Tattoo grinned. "We're going to be married, as soon as we get home."

"Oh, I am very happy for both of you," Roarke said, beaming. They all exchanged farewells and handshakes, and waved the happy couple aboard the plane.

Then Tattoo turned to Roarke and began, "Boss, you really did it this time. I love happy endings...and I want to—"

Leslie's mouth had fallen open after the first two words; it took Tattoo two and a half sentences to realize that he was speaking in Roarke's voice! Roarke watched him curiously, though with a clear trace of amusement gleaming out of his dark eyes; Tattoo gingerly patted his mouth and his throat, his own eyes wide with shock. Leslie squinted at her guardian, who winked at her; Tattoo looked at him with the same suspicious expression, and Roarke simply turned and waved once more. Tattoo followed suit, looking disgruntled, but Leslie had to swallow back a guffaw as Roarke peered down at Tattoo with a broad grin. Sometimes, Leslie reflected, even her guardian had to have a little fun!

§ § § - October 2, 2009

"Sometimes," Anna-Kristina said through her laughter, "I think you were a worse tease than Uncle Christian, Mr. Roarke." That set them all off; it was a moment or two before they could speak again.

"So seeing Valerie in the fire somehow brought back memories of the fire Michael set?" Christian asked, slipping an arm around his wife's shoulders. "I'm sorry about that, but I'm afraid I don't quite see the connection."

Leslie shrugged. "Something about that particular fire, destroying that evil puppet. I mean, its evil soul. Or something." She made a face. "It probably went back to when Father was performing the ritual that brought Valerie to life in the first place. The way those laser-beam effects shot out of her eyes gave her head the appearance of a skull somehow, and then seeing her face in the fire...that was kind of creepy too, with the face paint melting off the wood and those giant glass eyes staring me down. All I could see was Michael—who for years was the personification of evil to me—throwing gas on the house and then getting caught in his own trap. Skulls and skeletons—remember when I showed you the remains of the place that time we went to Susanville, and I told you how the timbers that were left standing made me think of skeletons?"

Christian's face cleared. "Ah, I see it now. Not such good imagery for someone who had so recently been through such a trauma. Did you explain to Mary Ann Carlin why you reacted as you did?"

Roarke smiled. "We did, yes. I distinctly recall her telling Leslie that already she had the makings of a very strong woman—and in the years since then, she's been proven correct, time and time again."

"And all those questions you asked Mr. Roarke about why he left that actor to live out the rest of his life in his fantasy," Christian went on. "Specifically, your conviction that sooner or later, someone would wonder what had happened to him. Did they?"

Leslie grinned. "Yep, but not who we thought. A bounty hunter came here on my birthday weekend, the year before I met you, looking for him and three other people who had vanished during their fantasies here. I'll tell you more about that one some other time, but I think it's getting kind of late and I've got dry mouth from talking so much."

"Then we can do this again another night soon," Anna-Kristina said. "It'll help me to get through all the side effects I expect to have from this cure. I only hope I won't prove to be too much of a disturbance around the island. I might scare children."

"Then maybe we'll just have to lock you in your room at our house," Christian joked. "Well, my Rose, let's go to bed; we'll all be busy tomorrow."


	9. Chapter 9

§ § § - October 5, 2009

It became clear after the first two or three days that Anna-Kristina's personal demon was unusually vivid nightmares. She refused to discuss them in detail, and Leslie admitted that she could understand why. "Who'd want to relive something that terrified you?" she explained to Christian. "I had my share of nightmares before I had to face Michael's specter, and I've always thought I was very lucky I could never quite remember them."

By Monday, Anna-Kristina had begun to hallucinate some of the horrors that had been appearing in her nightmares; when Christian and Leslie dropped off the triplets at school, they took her directly to the B&amp;B and to Rogan's greenhouse. Julie, who was refilling some of her kitchen spice jars, greeted them as Rogan came out of the back room. "Hi, how are you? Kids having fun in school?"

"They still love it," Leslie said with a grin. "We just got word that there's going to be a school fundraiser and all the grades, from kindergarten through fifth, will be doing artwork following a different theme for each grade level. The kindergartners will be creating pictures from different geometrical shapes. They'll send all the pictures to a company in California that does custom framing for schools and individuals, and then at the fundraiser the parents can buy the framed artwork. I think they're going to have that right around Christmas break—at least that's what I remember from the flyer they brought home from school on Friday. They'll have raffles and prize-winning contests, and Maureen said she'll be catering the event and donating seventy-five percent of the proceeds to the school."

"That's great," said Julie with enthusiasm. "Glad they're so excited. Rory didn't bring home a flyer though...or else maybe I just had a senior moment and forgot to check his backpack." Julie had to go through Rory's school backpack at least once a week to remove any school information, weekend homework assignments, and sometimes long-forgotten remnants of uneaten lunches. Leslie smiled at that, just as Julie noticed Anna-Kristina's pale face and twitchy demeanor. "Uh-oh. Rogan, I think you're needed here."

"Seems so," Rogan mused, taking in Anna-Kristina's drawn appearance. "What's been happenin', then?"

"I have the most horrible dreams I've ever had in my life," Anna-Kristina told him, shuddering. "I see such ugly and terrifying things. It..." She slanted a glance at a solemn-faced Christian and confessed, "It's like living in a Salvador Dali painting."

Rogan, Julie, Christian and Leslie looked at one another. "Like the kind with the melting watches?" Julie said.

"Exactly so," replied Anna-Kristina. "But much worse things than melting watches. Human forms being stretched and squeezed, and everything in nature and the sky changing to sickening colors, all shifting shapes and waving forms and...and the ugliest monsters and mutations. Every night I have worse dreams than the night before. Last night I saw my husband and daughters being tortured and mutilated."

_"That's_ what you saw?" Christian asked, aghast. "Little wonder you woke up screaming as you did." He and Leslie exchanged a worried look, both well remembering their niece's ringing screams that had roused the entire family and terrified all four children.

"I'm deathly afraid of what I'll see next," Anna-Kristina admitted, wrapping her arms around herself as tightly as she could and shivering hard. "I wish it could be possible for me to go through the next two weeks in a coma."

Rogan let out a heavy sigh. "I think it's due to two things," he said slowly, as Julie resumed replenishing her stock of herbs and spices. "Yer family is prone to mental shenanigans as it is, the way Christian's mentioned before. But he told me that there's somethin' about yer mind an' personality that makes ye more susceptible than yer sisters. That, an' I think ye're more sensitive than yer sisters were to the thornapple in the cure."

"Is there nothing you can do?" Leslie asked. "I mean, I know you have to expect side effects with any kind of medication. But asking her to endure two weeks of mental horrors is just too much. There must be _some_thing you can do."

"Mr. Roarke gave Magga something to help with her endless hallucinations," Christian recalled. "It required her to remain in the hospital for several days, but then she seemed to reach a peak after which the hallucinations ceased entirely, as far as we know. If she had any others, apparently she didn't think they were worth mentioning. If you don't have anything she can use to ease these nightmares, we'll speak with him."

Rogan sighed again. "Aye, I agree...although it's early in the run to be askin' after some sort of relief. But if they're as bad as ye say, then ye'd better talk to uncle. Ye should keep in mind that whatever worked on Princess Margareta may not work on Princess Anna-Kristina, or it could have a whole different effect on her, good or bad."

"We'll keep that in mind," said Christian. "All right then, _Kattersprinsessan_, let's go to the main house and see what Mr. Roarke says. If it's this bad already, I can't imagine what worse hell lies in wait. Anyhow, Rogan, there's your latest update."

"Aye," he murmured and sighed. "Just remember, though—it all wears off after those first fifteen days, and ye'll never need the spice again."

"I've been trying to remember that," Anna-Kristina said with a game little smile, and they all chuckled softly. Christian and Leslie took Anna-Kristina out and drove over to the main house, where Leslie brought in a soundly sleeping Anastasia and settled her baby carrier on the floor beside the leather chair she sat in. Roarke listened to their account, then frowned a little, considering the problem.

"What was it you gave Magga?" Christian asked when a couple of minutes had elapsed and Roarke was still pondering. "Some sort of gas, if I recall correctly."

Roarke nodded. "A special anesthetic delivered by gas mask. It's only fractionally as strong as the tranquilizer I gave you for that tropical stink beetle last year, but most of the same ingredients are included in it. It wears off after approximately twelve hours, so it needs to be reapplied at regular intervals."

Christian's dubious look caught their attention, and Leslie asked, "What's wrong, my love? You look like you don't believe it."

"I don't," Christian said. "Not after what I was told about that insect spray. Just for curiosity's sake, Mr. Roarke, if you hadn't intervened and brought me back to consciousness after Julianne sprayed me instead of the intended target—how long would I have been out?"

"Approximately five days," Roarke told him, "give or take a few hours."

Christian's frozen gape didn't budge for long enough that Roarke turned to Anna-Kristina. "Should you in fact wish to go into a medically induced coma, you will have to remain in the hospital for the duration—not just because of the need for renewal of the anesthetic, but also so that you can be monitored for any adverse reactions, especially as regards the amakarna cure. It's entirely up to you, of course."

"Did Magga have any problems with it?" Anna-Kristina asked.

Leslie shook her head. "No, she was fine—but you have to remember, just because you're her sister, that doesn't mean you'll have the exact same reaction she did. There's some risk in it, no matter what you do. I know the nightmares have to be brutal, from what little you managed to tell us about them. But they might be preferable to some really nasty medical condition brought on by a bad clash between the anesthetic and the serum."

"How likely is this to happen, then?" Christian demanded, having evidently recovered from his disbelief over Roarke's little revelation. "There were two other people in the same trial with Magga who had the anesthetic applied to them as well. Did they suffer any adverse effects?"

"No," said Leslie with a one-shouldered shrug. "But remember, my love, everybody's different. In one of his very few chatty e-mails while we were in Lilla Jordsö waiting for Anastasia, Rogan told me three people had had problems when they tried to escape their severe hallucinations that way. Two in the third trial and one in the fourth."

"What happened to them?" Anna-Kristina asked.

"One kept going into convulsions, according to Rogan," Leslie said. "Another one had heart failure, more than once, and finally the doctors said they couldn't keep shocking him back to life and weren't going to use the anesthetic anymore. The other one turned out to be allergic to the anesthetic. So if you decide to go that route, those are just examples of what might happen to you. It's only fair to let you know."

Anna-Kristina sighed, looking deeply discouraged, and Leslie turned to Christian. "What if she requested medical records from her doctor in Lilla Jordsö—presumably Dr. Salomonsson at the castle?" she asked. "If she's ever had to be sedated for any reason, her records would reflect any problems or reactions, wouldn't they?"

Christian mulled it over for a moment or two. "I should think they would, and yes, it would be Dr. Salomonsson," he said with a nod. "Mr. Roarke, if you don't mind, we should call the castle, and Anna-Kristina and I will speak with the royal family's doctor there about getting transcripts of her medical records sent here, so that we can decide if it's medically advisable for her to take advantage of the anesthetic."

Roarke nodded. "Very well, by all means." He gestured at the phone, and Christian put the call through, asking in _jordiska_ for the doctor's castle office and then giving Anna-Kristina the phone.

After several minutes of discussion, she turned to Christian. "He says that he can scan the papers in my record and then send them to you via e-mail attachment, if that's all right."

Christian nodded. "That'll be fine; then I can print them on this end. Tell him just to send anything that has to do with possible reactions, or lack thereof, to anesthesia."

She nodded and spoke into the phone, and Christian sighed gently. "Somehow it seems patently unfair, after a lifetime of being chained to that spice, for this serum to come burdened with so many terrible side effects. It's as if amakarna users haven't already suffered enough from having to take the spice every day."

"I understand, Christian," Roarke said, "but in cases like these, too often there are no alternatives. We did a good bit of experimentation at the LiSciola villa in Italy before returning here to the island and conducting further tests at Rogan's greenhouse. It so happened that the final mix of ingredients was the most effective." He studied Christian with a faint, knowing smile. "I have no doubt whatsoever that, were you yourself on amakarna, you would have chosen to take the cure without hesitation."

Christian's return smile was twisted. "I think perhaps you know me too well. Only another reason for me to thank the fates that I was born the youngest and thus not given the spice from infancy."

Anna-Kristina concluded the conversation then and hung up. "Well, the records are on their way. Dr. Salomonsson asks that we allow him an hour or so before you start looking for his e-mail."

Christian nodded and agreed, "Well enough." He tilted his left wrist to check his Rolex. "It's still early, not even ten yet. What now?"

"Maybe you could share another memory of a fantasy?" Anna-Kristina said hopefully.

Leslie and Roarke had just met each other's amused gazes when Julie came in, carrying a sheet of paper in one hand. She looked surprised to see them gathered around Roarke's desk as they were. "What's this, a caucus?"

"Not exactly. We're just trying to take some precautions to see if Anna-Kristina will be able to tolerate sedation while the amakarna serum is doing its job," said Leslie. "She just asked us to tell her about another fantasy we remember."

Julie grinned. "I've got one for you. What about Delphine and Greg's wedding? I was always sorry I had to miss it because I was cramming like a fiend for my final exams at college. But for years I wondered how in the world she broke the news to Greg that she had the MacNabb powers." She grinned at Christian's and Anna-Kristina's querulous looks. "Delphine is my older sister. She decided she wanted to have her wedding here on the island, but she had another reason for coming as well." Leaving them with that, she turned to Roarke. "If you're going to tell them about it now, could I listen in?"

Roarke laughed. "If you have the time to spare, Julie, by all means. Why don't you all make yourselves comfortable and we'll take a little time to entertain Princess Anna-Kristina; I suspect this will be merely another in a long string of recollections she'll ask us for while she's here. But don't worry, Your Highness—the reminiscences are quite enjoyable for us."

Anna-Kristina looked relieved. "I'm glad to hear that. I look forward to this. And just what do you mean by the MacNabb powers, anyhow?"

Julie grinned. "Let's sit down over here and I'll tell you all about it." She handed Roarke the paper she carried. "That's the latest room list, before we get caught up in storytelling and I forget to give you that."

When they had settled around the tea table and Leslie had placed the baby carrier with the slumbering infant atop its marble surface, Julie proceeded to explain the provenance of the MacNabb powers to a fascinated Anna-Kristina. "For years, Delphine got a kick out of using them to torture me when I was a kid. Then she moved out, and I had a few years of peace, till our parents died and she ended up becoming my guardian. I was in college when she met Greg, and for the first time she began to wonder if having the MacNabb powers was an asset or a liability. But this is where uncle and Leslie take over."

§ § § - April 11, 1981

The first person out of the seaplane's hatch was a casually dressed man with a shock of shiny black hair and square-rimmed glasses, grinning with anticipation. "He looks to me like a college professor," Tattoo commented as the new arrival turned back to the hatch to lend assistance to an equally cheerful dark-haired woman in a bright-pink dress.

"You could say that, Tattoo, yes," Roarke said. "Actually, Dr. Paul Todd is a paleontologist, from an eastern university."

Blankly Tattoo asked, "A paleonto-what?"

Leslie giggled. "Paleontologist," she repeated, drawing the word out a bit.

"He's concerned with the origins of life," Roarke explained, and Tattoo nodded comprehension. "The lovely young lady with him is his assistant, Miss Elizabeth Drake."

"What's his fantasy?" asked Tattoo.

"To find positive proof that a creature once existed on this earth that was neither man nor animal," Roarke replied.

Tattoo looked confused, glanced at Leslie, then ventured, "You mean, we're gonna help him find some kind of missing link?"

"What he's looking for is even more strange and mysterious than that, Tattoo," said Roarke. "Also considerably more dangerous."

"Animal, vegetable or mineral?" Leslie put in, half jokingly. But Roarke only offered one of those annoyingly mysterious smiles of his, and she made a face, then shifted her gaze to the plane dock as a movement there caught her attention. This time a young woman with a cap of straight pale-blonde hair, a delighted grin, and a yellow sundress stepped out; Roarke smiled broadly at sight of her, as if he recognized her. Leslie glanced at him and noticed his expression. "Who's that? You look like you know her."

"That young lady is Miss Delphine MacNabb," he said, as a somewhat older man got out behind her. "For the past three years, she has been part of a successful stage act, working as assistant to the Great Zachariah."

Tattoo and Leslie were both impressed. "The famous magician?" she exclaimed.

"Once I saw him make an elephant disappear," Tattoo put in.

"Indeed, Tattoo!" said Roarke with interest. "Recently the act has been playing Las Vegas, where Miss MacNabb met the young man you see with her, Mr. Greg Randolph, a hotel executive. Her fantasy is for them to be married on this island, where she was born."

"You mean she's a native of Fantasy Island?" asked Tattoo.

"Wow," murmured Leslie. "How lucky!"

Roarke grinned. "A descendant of one of our oldest families, Tattoo; her parents were dear friends of mine. Regrettably, I am not at all sure I can grant her fantasy; there are certain problems."

"Then what'd you let her come all this way for?" asked Tattoo.

"Because I could not find it in my heart to refuse her, Tattoo. You see, she happens to be my goddaughter." At that, Tattoo smiled broadly, and Leslie glanced between Roarke and Delphine MacNabb with surprised interest—and, admittedly, just a touch of jealousy. It startled her to feel that way; she'd had no idea Roarke had had godchildren, and she decided to refrain from asking questions, just so she could get the full story.

Roarke accepted his champagne flute and raised it in toast, and their guests beamed back, lifting their own drinks in return salute. Leslie caught it when he winked at Delphine MacNabb, and she winked right back, grinning as if she had a secret.


	10. Chapter 10

§ § § - April 11, 1981

In less than half an hour they had visitors: Delphine MacNabb and Greg Randolph poked their heads in the door. "Hello, anyone home?" Delphine called.

Roarke instantly abandoned his chair and came to meet her as she stepped into the foyer, with Greg Randolph, Tattoo and a very curious Leslie looking on as they hugged each other and Roarke even spun her around once. "Ah, welcome home, my child!" he exclaimed, beaming. He caught himself, took in her face and observed, _"Child!_ I can't call you that any longer." Delphine shook her head in smiling agreement. "You have blossomed into a full-grown woman!"

"And I'm about to become a wife," Delphine added brightly. "Uncle, I want you to marry us."

Greg Randolph seemed questioning, and Roarke turned to him, explaining, "As chief magistrate of the island, I do, of course, have that authority..."

Greg grinned and made a conciliatory gesture. "Like the captain of a ship."

"Precisely," concurred Roarke.

Tattoo chuckled, plainly delighted. "How romantic."

"Tattoo, since this is Mr. Randolph's first visit to Fantasy Island, perhaps you would like to show him around, huh?" Roarke suggested.

"But boss, I thought Miss MacNabb would do that," Tattoo said quizzically.

"Uh, well, if you don't mind, gentlemen, I should like to talk to my goddaughter in private," Roarke explained.

Tattoo capitulated with grace, and Greg came around to give Delphine a couple of gentle kisses. "See you later," he said.

"This way, Mr. Randolph," Tattoo said, and led Greg out through the French shutters. Leslie watched them go, wondering whether she would be told to accompany them, but when she took a step in that direction, Roarke stopped her.

"No, Leslie, I suggest you stay," he said. "After all, you and Delphine haven't properly met, and under the circumstances, I think you should get acquainted."

"Under what circumstances?" Leslie asked.

"The fact that you are my ward, for one thing," Roarke said, and she hunched her shoulders with a sheepish grin at Delphine's broad smile. Roarke noticed the interested look on his goddaughter's face and swiftly summarized Leslie's history and how she had come to be his ward; Delphine nodded and shook hands with Leslie.

"News of Julie?" Roarke inquired and turned to Leslie. "Delphine has a younger sister, Julie, who I believe is in college."

"And in the thick of studying for final exams," Delphine concurred. "She wanted to come for the wedding, but she just couldn't get away. I promised there'll be plenty of pictures to show her. She'll be graduating in less than two months."

"Wonderful!" Roarke said, smiling broadly.

Delphine nodded, then pulled in a breath and turned to him. "Well, uncle—" She caught herself. "You don't mind me calling you that, do you?" Roarke shook his head, and she remarked with a grin, " 'Godfather' just doesn't seem right after that Marlon Brando movie, you know?" Roarke chuckled and smoothed some of Delphine's hair back from her face, then fingered her chin in a paternal manner that made Delphine smile before inquiring hopefully, "What do you think of my Greg?"

"He seems like a fine young man," Roarke observed, gazing out the French shutters where Greg had lately been. "Bright, earnest, and, uh...very practical, I would say."

Delphine made an assenting noise and nodded. "He's on his way to the top. The youngest entertainment manager the Calvert Hotel chain ever had."

"Indeed!" said Roarke, impressed. He gestured to the settee by the shuttered windows. "Let's sit over there, huh?"

Delphine agreed, and Roarke dropped a hand on Leslie's shoulder long enough to gesture her in that direction as well. Once they were seated, Roarke began, "About your fantasy...I suggest that we begin by consulting your family papers." He picked up a folder from the table near the settee and opened it. "We will need your birth certificate, of course, and certain other documents..." Leslie saw him slant Delphine a sidelong look before shifting his gaze toward the built-in bookshelves at his right; Delphine, studying the contents of the folder, missed this altogether. Roarke eyed Delphine once more before adding, "You will find your family bible over there on that top shelf."

Delphine started to get up, then checked herself and got a particular look about her; settling herself on the edge of the settee, she flicked her left hand in a practiced, casual motion. Something—a movement, a slight noise—drew Leslie's attention to the bookshelf; her mouth dropped wide open when a book slid right off, as if of its own volition, and floated through the air, landing neatly in Delphine's hands.

She caught the book, smiled, then grimaced. "Darn it, I forgot!"

"Precisely," Roarke said in a matter-of-fact tone. "What you did was instinctive, perfectly natural to you." He seemed not to see Leslie's speechless, flabbergasted mien. "Must I remind you that you are not an ordinary mortal? You have inherited certain powers known as the Gift of the MacNabbs."

Delphine shot him an incredulous look. "It's not a gift, it's a curse! And I don't want it anymore! I never asked for it. All I want is to be a normal, happy wife!" Roarke sat up, a pensive look on his face, and took her hand; her voice dropped as she appealed, "I love Greg very much. Please help me."

Roarke looked down at her hand—the one adorned with her engagement ring—and inquired, "Have you told him about...your problem?"

"Oh, no," Delphine exclaimed as Roarke examined the ring. "I don't think I could ever make him understand! You have to help me get rid of the gift."

Roarke gave her a surprised look, then released her hand and arose, saying, "Oh, I'm afraid that's not possible. However, your magic gift can be controlled, by concentration—willpower."

Delphine sighed and got up to approach him, while Leslie stared on, still at a loss for words and wondering why in the world Delphine considered her gift a curse. "I'm willing to try anything," the young woman said, leaping to her feet and approaching Roarke.

Roarke studied her and advised, "Remember, a true, deep love can often achieve more than strength. Now, I will do all I can to help you, of course—but in the final analysis, only you—and you alone—can solve the problem." He kissed her cheek and smiled.

Leslie didn't realize she was shaking her head till Roarke turned to her and Delphine followed suit. "Is something wrong, Leslie?" he asked.

"Oh...no, nothing," Leslie said, sighing. "I guess it's just...I mean, wow."

Delphine grinned ruefully. "If you ever get to meet Julie, you'll wonder how on earth we could possibly be sisters. I have the powers, she doesn't; we don't even look related, and we're twelve years apart on top of that. Julie always wanted the gift." She turned back to Roarke. "And right now, I wish I could give it to her." With a disgusted sigh, she murmured an excuse and let herself out.

"So..." Leslie began, trying to find the best way to phrase her questions. "So...she has this...um, this magic ability...but how come she does and Julie doesn't?"

Roarke chuckled again. "I'm afraid it's a long story, Leslie, and one I don't have time to tell you just now. We have an appointment with Dr. Todd and Miss Drake. Perhaps you'll have a chance to ask Delphine herself, later on." He gestured toward the foyer, and she got up and accompanied him out; they took a rover to the bungalow where Paul Todd and Elizabeth Drake were staying, and picked them up for a drive down to the western side of the island, where the terrain was wilder and less populated with flora than the eastern end.

"My theory is based on many years of personal research," Dr. Todd explained as they pulled up to where another rover and a driver waited for them. "It's that, somewhere in the earth's early development, there had to be a life form, structured on an element other than carbon." Roarke nodded with interest, while Elizabeth and Leslie gazed on.

"And have your studies identified that element?" Roarke inquired.

"The most abundant element in the earth's crust, next to oxygen," Todd said, absently polishing his glasses as he spoke. "Silicon."

Elizabeth began, "I've helped Paul—" Roarke's gaze sharpened slightly, and Elizabeth grinned as if caught out, correcting herself. "...Dr. Todd...organize his material, Mr. Roarke. Mathematically, there had to be that moment in the earth's history, in some semi-molten stage, when conditions were perfect for the emergence of organisms based on silicon."

"I see," said Roarke, reaching out for the piece of white rock Elizabeth held, while Leslie leaned over the hood of the car, looking on. "May I?" Elizabeth gave him the rock, and he peered at it. "The moment of creation...the sun and the primeval mud, and an unimagined life form stirring in a fiery chaos. A creature fashioned of silicon, instead of flesh and blood."

Dr. Todd and Elizabeth looked impressed. "Exactly," Todd said with high approval. "Now, how do I prove my theory?"

"Perhaps you will find it here, on Fantasy Island, Dr. Todd," Roarke said. "But you must be aware: even here, I can only create the conditions—the potential—for what you ask. I can give no guarantees."

"I understand that," Todd said with a calm nod.

"There could also be great potential danger," Roarke added, handing the rock back to Elizabeth. Todd watched him do so and eyed her for a moment.

"I know that, Mr. Roarke," she said. "But I'm a scientist too, and danger sometimes goes with the job."

Roarke regarded them with a quick lift of the brows and a thoughtful nod before acceding. "Very well." He started for the second rover waiting nearby. "Uh...that mineral specimen you showed me, Miss Drake, is identical to rocks found at the northern tip of this island, where you and Dr. Todd will be going." As he spoke, he extracted a rolled-up map from the second rover and removed the rubber band holding it together, while gesturing toward the nearby rocky beach and the cliffs that made up the northernmost-reaching point of the island. The surf here was noisy but soothing.

"There are bands of pure silica in them?" Elizabeth Drake exclaimed.

"Oh, indeed," Roarke said. "May I show you?" Leslie watched Todd and Elizabeth fall in beside Roarke while her guardian spread out the map on the hood of the second rover. "This is where the rock formations are found; the area is volcanic. This is the crater here." He pointed to a spot on the map. "But you must be careful; the rock is very unstable here in certain spots. Also, I must point out to you that the natives say the volcano is haunted." His features broke into a smile, as if he found this funny and expected his guests to agree that it was just silly superstition. Sure enough, they both grinned back. "It is taboo to the local people; therefore, I regret that I cannot provide you with any helpers. I am terribly sorry."

"Oh, I understand, I understand," Dr. Todd assured him.

"You're very kind," said Roarke. "Uh...you will find all the supplies you need, I believe..." He gestured toward the back of the second rover. "And if you will just follow this trail, you will be on your way."

Todd rolled up the map and handed it to Elizabeth. "Mr. Roarke, again, I thank you," he said happily, moving around his host to get into the driver's seat of the rover. Elizabeth echoed him, going for the passenger seat; Roarke nodded, and as Todd started the car and made ready to pull out, Roarke said, "Good luck."

"I hope you find what you're looking for," Leslie called. Todd and Elizabeth both waved at her and drove away down the secondary road where they had pulled off the Ring Road. She rounded the rover in which they had arrived while the driver who had brought Todd's car went to get into the back seat.

"Good luck in your search for primordial life," Roarke murmured, watching the departing car. Leslie peered up at him.

"Do you think they'll find anything?" she asked. "I mean...if the natives around here say that volcano's haunted, and since this is Fantasy Island and all...I bet they'll come up with something, even if all they do is prove that whatever's supposed to be haunting that cinder cone is just a wild jungle animal."

Roarke regarded her and grinned. "You never know, my child, you never know," he said. "We'd better get back home; there's plenty to do."

They had been back at the main house for perhaps half an hour, with Leslie opening mail and Roarke perusing some fantasy-request letters she had set aside especially for his inspection the afternoon before, when she heard footsteps on the terrace outside and peered through the open French shutters. From her angle she couldn't see anyone, but after a moment Roarke—without turning at all—invited, "Come and sit down, Mr. Zachariah. Please." Leslie stared at him, then shook her head and grinned to herself. Maybe someday she could manage to hide her surprise at her guardian's tricks!

A couple of seconds later, in strolled an older man in a rather old-fashioned gray business suit and a hat; he sported a fog-gray mustache and goatee that matched whatever hair emerged from beneath the hat. He made as if to tip said hat at Leslie without actually doing so, and focused on Roarke, rounding Leslie's chair. "Mr. Roarke, how nice to see you," he said, lifting his hands in greeting. It was then that Leslie saw that for some reason he wore white gloves, and in one hand he carried a cane which appeared to be more of an affectation than a necessity.

"May I inquire what brings you here at this particular time?" Roarke asked in a cool voice, without ever looking up from the page of the letter he was perusing.

Zachariah parked himself in a club chair. "Dear Delphy's wedding, of course."

At that Roarke finally did look up, with a mildly surprised expression, and set aside the page. "That's odd. She didn't mention having invited you."

"Delphy is the best assistant I ever had in my magic act," Zachariah explained with an expansive, paternal smile.

"Oh, I am sure," Roarke agreed, with a deceptively warm smile of his own, "and you have no intention of losing her; in fact, you came here to stop the wedding."

"On the contrary, my dear fellow," Zachariah protested. "If you have no objection, I intend to ask Delphy to let me have the honor of giving away the bride."

Roarke's gaze chilled, and for the first time Leslie began to get a sense of foreboding as he said firmly, "Mr. Zachariah, I must insist that you do not speak to Miss MacNabb or Mr. Randolph before the ceremony. I will convey your request to her."

Zachariah seemed to have no response for that; he peered up at Roarke with a somewhat consternated expression. Roarke's cool smile never wavered as he got to his feet and stared the magician down. "Mr. Zachariah," he said, that deceptive smile widening and acquiring a definite warning tinge, "I would be most upset if anyone, for any reason, in any way..." The smile vanished and his stare grew almost menacing. "...interfered with my goddaughter's plans."

Zachariah glanced away, his eyes popping for a moment with the clear understanding that he was up against someone formidable whom he'd best not cross. "Oh, I assure you," he said in a slightly rattled voice, "I shan't say a word to her. Not a word." Roarke smiled a little and nodded, but Leslie hoped her guardian had better sense than to believe it.

"Well." Zachariah seemed to realize that Roarke had nothing further to say to him, and got to his feet. "It was good seeing you. And nice to meet you, young lady..." His voice trailed off expectantly.

"My ward, Leslie," Roarke supplied. "And be advised, you are not to disturb her in any way, either."

"Message received," said Zachariah. "Good day to you both." He strolled back out the French shutters, idly swinging his cane as he went.

Leslie waited till he was well out of sight before she looked back at Roarke, who had settled back onto the edge of the desk again and returned to the letter he was reading. "Mr. Roarke...do you really think he's gonna listen to you?"

"I'm sure he won't," Roarke said without looking up from the page, "but he will never be able to claim he wasn't warned." With that, he turned to her and winked, and she let out a delighted laugh and resumed sorting through letters.

No sooner had they settled down from their confrontation with Zachariah than a tall man whose hair and mustache had begun going gray arrived, introduced himself as Kyle Mason, and announced he was looking for Paul Todd and Elizabeth Drake. Roarke nodded. "Ah yes! I admit to having wondered why they didn't mention you. I presume you plan to join them on their expedition."

"That's the idea," Mason said.

Roarke regarded him with some suspicion before nodding. "Very well. If you will go to the hotel, you will find a jeep there waiting for you. It contains all the provisions you'll need for the weekend. You need only take a left from this lane and follow the coastal road approximately twenty-five miles; then you will see a branch road off to your right that roughly follows the outline of the cliffs there. Take that, and you will catch up with Dr. Todd and Miss Drake."

Mason nodded and shook hands with him. "Thanks, Mr. Roarke." He strode out without acknowledging Leslie at all.

"He's with Dr. Todd?" she asked when Mason was gone.

"A colleague of his," Roarke said. "I couldn't stop him from coming to the island, but I am afraid that Miss Drake at least will not be very happy to see him." So saying, he nodded at the letters that sat in front of her. Shaking her head at his cryptic demeanor, she told herself that all the explanations would probably come forth on Monday morning, and got back to work with a quiet little sigh.


	11. Chapter 11

§ § § - April 11, 1981

Shortly before lunchtime, Delphine came in, still alone. "Hi, uncle. Hi there, Leslie," she said. "Seen Greg?"

"No, I believe he and Tattoo are still on their deluxe tour of the island," Roarke said, smiling. Delphine laughed at that.

"Sooner or later he'll have to get around to the house where Julie and I grew up," she said. "I'd show it to him myself, but I don't think we have time, and it's probably filled with dust anyway...after all, we haven't been back for years. I wonder if the key's still hidden in the same place."

Roarke chuckled. "I should imagine so." At that moment the phone rang and he excused himself to answer it.

Delphine turned to Leslie. "So how old are you?"

"I'll be sixteen next month," said Leslie. Delphine nodded, and Leslie pulled in a deep breath and pushed out the question before she could chicken out. "That trick you did this morning...I mean...the levitation and all..."

Delphine made a face and mumbled, "Oh, that. It's kind of a pain, now that I'm about to get married. Greg doesn't know, just as I told uncle. If he ever finds out..."

"I think your powers are really cool, Delphine," Leslie insisted. "Actually, it reminds me of that old TV show 'Bewitched'."

"And Greg's going to be Darrin," said Delphine in a glum tone. Leslie couldn't help herself and laughed; Delphine looked up with a reluctant smile. "Honestly, though. If my parents were still around, I'd ask them why in the world they had to go and have kids."

"What happened to them?" Leslie ventured.

Delphine hunched her shoulders for a moment and let her gaze drift toward the windows. "They're dead now, but uncle helped them immigrate to the island ages ago after they suffered a lot of persecution in Ireland. They were part of a branch of the family that first settled here roughly a hundred years ago for the same reason. My sister and I were both born here. We still have a lot of relatives in the British Isles, though. How they keep ordinary people from finding out about the powers is a complete mystery to me."

_Probably the same way you do,_ Leslie considered, but kept this to herself. Instead she said, "Well, I still say they're cool. And I also say that if your fiancé is a decent guy, he'll still love you no matter what."

Delphine pulled her gaze back to Leslie, surprised; then she smiled warmly. "You're a sweet kid, Leslie. Thanks. But I think life will be a lot less complicated if he doesn't know and if I can keep him from finding out."

Leslie shrugged, just as Roarke hung up the phone and regarded Delphine with a warm smile. "I presume you yourself visited some of your old haunts."

"Yeah, I went around exploring the turf," Delphine agreed, grinning. "F.I. High hasn't changed too much, but boy, you really remodeled downtown Amberville. I love that pedestrian shopping area. I was wondering if I could talk to you...if you've got a little time, we could take a walk outside. I just want to enjoy the fresh air, after all the dusty heat in Las Vegas. Could we?"

"Of course, of course," Roarke agreed, going to the shelves and picking up a small book to take with them. "Leslie, why don't you come as well; I think you've earned a break."

Roarke began to page through the book as Leslie and Delphine preceded him out the door and across the veranda; Delphine's curiosity was piqued, and she queried, "What's that you're reading, uncle?"

"It's an old almanac, and according to it, during the next forty-eight hours, you must summon all your willpower. Constantly tell yourself," Roarke instructed firmly as they paused beside the front walk, "that you are just an ordinary human being." Leslie wondered if the little book really said such a thing, but she couldn't see the pages, and had a sneaking feeling that if she tried, Roarke wouldn't let her.

"Well, I'll try my best, uncle," Delphine said with a smile.

"Good," Roarke replied and read a little further in the book; meantime, Delphine reached out toward something behind his back, and a banana flew off a tree near the porch railing and sailed through the air. Delphine neatly caught it and had begun peeling it before she noticed Roarke's admonishing look and Leslie's delighted stare.

"That is _so cool!"_ Leslie blurted. "I wish I could do that!"

Roarke shot her a quelling look that made her clear her throat, but she refused to exhibit much remorse. He shook his head and turned back to Delphine, who realized at last what she had just done and froze for a second.

"Oh...I, uh...I didn't mean it," she said quickly. "Honest." Roarke nodded, still eyeing her, and she blurted, "It's like...a habit! An unconscious reflex. Whenever I'm with someone I know and I..."

Roarke overrode her embarrassed protest, taking the banana from her. "It is a mystery to me how you have managed this far to conceal the true nature of your unique talents from your fiancé!"

"Well," Delphine admitted, "whenever I slip up, I just pass it off as another conjuring trick—something I learned from my boss." She grinned engagingly. "The Great Zachariah, Prince of Magic!"

"Hmm, I see," murmured Roarke. "But in the daily intimacy of marriage, you will not be able to hide the truth very long, will you?"

"And then it really _will_ be Darrin and Samantha Stephens," Leslie said, grinning. Roarke cast her another look, and she shrugged, but her grin lingered, especially when Delphine quirked a brief smile back as if in acknowledgment.

"No," Delphine admitted to Roarke, downcast. She sighed, then stared up at him in appeal. "What do I _do_, uncle?"

Roarke glanced down at the banana in his hand, then gave it back to her and said flatly, "Eat it." With that, he strode off, leaving Leslie and Delphine staring after him.

"You think maybe uncle's getting just a little exasperated?" Delphine murmured finally, watching Roarke disappear down the lane.

"Oh, I don't know, maybe," Leslie returned coyly, eyeing Delphine sidelong.

Delphine caught her look, rolled her eyes and threw her hands in the air, barely managing not to inadvertently toss the banana aside in so doing. "Oh, phooey. Well, I might as well go back to the bungalow. I've got a lot of practicing to do to be ordinary."

"Good luck," Leslie called after her, and Delphine waved the banana in the air as an acknowledgment, without turning or breaking stride. Leslie grinned and went back into the house, where she fielded a phone call that turned out to be from Lauren. "Wow, what're you doing calling here today?" she asked.

Lauren laughed. "I was getting bored and I took a chance that you might be home, that's all. Anything exciting going on this weekend?"

"Yeah, well...plenty, I guess. Can't tell you much, except that..." Leslie hesitated, then grinned. "Well, it's too bad you couldn't be in on this one fantasy. Do you think there's life somewhere in the galaxy that's silicon-based?"

"Heck, who knows," Lauren said. "I guess anything's possible, at least theoretically, but it sounds like something out of 'Star Trek'. Is there somebody looking for that?"

"Yup. No telling what he's gonna find. How can you be bored, unless your mother made you babysit Deborah and Adrian or something?"

"She did," Lauren grunted. "I guess maybe I ought to let you go, though. I know Mr. Roarke doesn't like us making you hog the phone on weekends. I'm gonna look forward to this silicon-life business on Monday, though. It sounds really cool."

"Yeah...definitely science fiction," Leslie murmured. "Maybe it'll turn into science fact. Well, talk to you Monday."

"Whoa—hey, wait, my mother just came up the front walk. If Mr. Roarke doesn't need you for a while, you want to meet me in town and we can get burgers and some ice cream after? I've really got to get out of this house."

"Well, Mr. Roarke just went somewhere, and Tattoo's giving somebody a really detailed tour of the island, so I'm here alone right now. Mr. Roarke did say I was due for a break. I'll leave him a note and we can meet in the town square."

"Great—see you in a few!" Lauren hung up, and Leslie put the phone down, scrawled a hasty message for Roarke, put the note atop his date book where he would be certain to see it, and left the house through the French shutters.

She saw Lauren loitering in front of the theater and waved at her; the girls greeted each other and started toward the pedestrian shopping area, making their way there via the perimeter of the square and passing the various shops along the way. Lauren interrupted her tale of woe about something Adrian had done that morning to watch someone enter one of the shops some twenty yards ahead. "Oh, look—nobody ever goes into that place."

Leslie saw just enough to recognize the person. "Hey...that was the Great Zachariah. I wonder what that was all about?"

"The Great Zachariah? You mean that magician who's been performing in Vegas for years now? What's he doing here?" Lauren asked, amazed.

Leslie hesitated. "Well, it's a long story, actually. But I'm pretty sure he's up to no good. Mr. Roarke and I saw him earlier at the main house, and there was something about him that kind of made me think he's got some kind of scheme."

"Hm." Lauren gave it a few seconds' thought, then turned to Leslie with a grin. "So, you want to eavesdrop on him?"

"That's rude," Leslie protested, and Lauren nodded reluctant concession. The girls eyed each other; then Leslie muttered, "Come on, let's go, before it's too late."

Lauren snickered, and they crept up to within a few inches of the plate-glass window in the storefront, which was called Madame Cluny's Curio Shop. Lauren had been right when she said no one ever went in there; in Leslie's experience it had very odd and limited hours, and in fact this was the first time she could remember seeing it open for business. Ever so slowly, they dared peek through the window; there was Zachariah, talking to a stern-faced, plump older woman wearing a Victorian-style dress and a little red cap perched atop her head. She wore a ring on every finger and cradled a long-haired black cat. "That must be Madame Cluny herself," Lauren whispered.

"Never saw her before," Leslie agreed. "How long's this shop been here?"

"Oh, I dunno...at least since I was a little kid. I always used to want to come in here and look around, but somehow it never seemed to be open when we were in town. Right now I'd just about kill to go in there and see what she's got."

Suddenly they faintly heard Zachariah's voice from inside, where he must have raised it. "Surely you've heard! Delphy quit my act—to be married!"

They didn't hear Cluny's response, but they read her lips: "Married!" Cluny's expression seemed horrified; Lauren shot Leslie a perplexed look, but Leslie barely noticed, trying to catch every word she possibly could.

"You mean she hasn't invited the dear old nanny to the wedding?" Zachariah asked, as if astonished. Cluny's face shut down and Leslie frowned as Zachariah remarked, "I can't understand what's gotten into the girl."

"Where is she?" asked Cluny, just audibly.

"Right here, on the island," said Zachariah.

Cluny arose, cuddling the cat. "That ungrateful child!" she intoned, loudly enough that her voice clearly carried through the glass.

"It's worse than you think," Zachariah informed her. "Even now as we talk, the dear girl is deliberately and methodically attempting to rid herself of the family gift."

"No! No, no! She cannot!" Cluny snapped. "You need her the way she is."

"Precisely, madame. I spoke to Roarke, and I'm convinced he's helping her. If I can't get her back, with her powers intact and accessible, my act is finished! The Great Zachariah is all washed up! And there'll be no more monthly checks for you." At that, Leslie and Lauren looked at each other; was that why Cluny's shop was rarely open?

"Work the cards," they heard Zachariah say, and both girls watched as Cluny settled back in her chair, pushed aside a card off a stack on her desk and lifted the next one. They couldn't quite see what was on it, but they knew it wasn't a playing card, especially when both Cluny and Zachariah began cackling gleefully.

"That's a tarot card," Lauren muttered. "I know those things—Deborah was into that stuff a couple years ago. I think it's all bunk...but you know what? When it comes to this place and that magician and all..." She watched Leslie nod; the girls slunk a few steps back, then peered at each other. "So who's Delphy, and what'd he mean about powers?"

Leslie released a sigh of defeat and quietly explained, "Delphine MacNabb. She's Zachariah's assistant in his act—_and_ she's Mr. Roarke's goddaughter. She's the only reason Zachariah's act is any good. She actually has magical powers. Trouble is, her fiancé doesn't know she has them, and she wants to get rid of them so she can be, well, normal."

"MacNabb..." Lauren mumbled. "You know, I bet she's related to my old babysitter. Anyway—so Delphine's essentially supporting these people, and now they want to keep her from having her own life just so they can keep getting paid?"

"Looks like it," Leslie agreed. "I wonder if I should tell Mr. Roarke."

"Well, if this guy's trying to stop Delphine's wedding, I'd definitely say something if I were you," Lauren advised. "Come on, let's get those burgers and ice creams, and we'll figure out what you should tell him."

§ § § - April 12, 1981

Leslie woke earlier than usual on Sunday morning, thinking back over what she had ended up telling Roarke the previous evening. It had astonished her when he'd merely let out a chuckle and remarked, "That's certainly no surprise."

She had stared at him. "But Mr. Roarke, he's going to sabotage the wedding!"

"If he tries, he will have me to deal with," Roarke had told her firmly, "but at the same time, if Delphine is ever to have a successful marriage, she will have to control herself with extreme care. And I am afraid that she has a habit of being rather impulsive." He shook his head at some memory. "It's my hope that marriage will help her to gain patience and understanding and tolerance; Greg Randolph will be just the tempering influence she needs."

"So then, you should stop Zachariah and Cluny," Leslie insisted. "They're up to something, Mr. Roarke. Lauren and I heard them!"

At that Roarke had eyed her sharply. "Leslie Susan, were you somewhere you should not have been? Surely you've learned better than that, at your age."

"We just happened to see him go into Cluny's shop, and we thought it was weird because that place is never open," Leslie protested. "It turns out Delphine's the only reason that fraud Zachariah is any kind of success, and he's been using her, taking the credit for what she does, and then supporting that...that fortuneteller. No wonder her shop's never open; she's too busy mooching off the earnings that Zachariah's using Delphine to make!"

"I know all about that, Leslie," Roarke had told her. "There is no doubt in my mind that, one way or another, the entire house of cards will collapse before the weekend is over. Kindly finish your meal, please; there are still plenty of arrangements to make for Delphine's wedding, and everything must be perfect."

Now she swung out of bed and dressed, then made the bed and straightened the room before slipping downstairs. Tattoo wasn't there, but of course Roarke was already up. She had learned early on that no matter how early she got out of bed, especially on a weekend, Roarke was always up before she was. He smiled a greeting at her, and she settled down by the desk in her usual chair. "So have you seen anyone yet?"

"As in Zachariah and Madame Cluny?" Roarke prompted, and Leslie nodded. "You might have noticed that it isn't yet seven o'clock. I suggest we set the matter aside and turn our minds to breakfast, so that we're fortified for the wedding."

As it happened, they spent all morning readying the terrace for the wedding, and for once Mana'olana didn't complain about Leslie's appetite at lunch. About two-thirty, Delphine came over and used the time-travel room to change into a lovely, understated wedding dress with thin straps that crisscrossed in the back; it was the color of rich cream and flattered her figure very nicely. Leslie felt like a garish poppy next to a delicate rose. "Wow, you look gorgeous!" she exclaimed.

Delphine twirled in front of her, grinning. "Thank you—and you look sweet too, Leslie. That shade of pink really suits you." At Leslie's sheepish smile, Delphine winked at her, then turned to Roarke. "You're sure Mr. Zachariah isn't angry with me for breaking up the act?" Delphine had come over that morning to update Roarke on her progress with the suppression of her magical powers, and Roarke had told her about Zachariah's visit.

"Well," Roarke said, "he insisted that he had come all this way hoping that you might grant him the privilege of giving away the bride."

Delphine shrugged, smiling. "Granted! That's very sweet of him."

Roarke smiled back, taking her hands and raising them, clearly very proud of her. "May I say you look...enchanting."

Delphine snickered. "Thanks...but I wish you'd picked another word, uncle." They all laughed quietly at that.

"That's all over, isn't it," Roarke murmured. "You are sure in your heart that you now have complete control of yourself?"

She nodded. "I have the gift safely locked away."

"I know it wasn't easy for you. But a wish that exists in the heart and mind can always be made to exist in the world." Roarke smiled just as they heard the organ strike up the wedding march on the terrace; Leslie straightened abruptly, and Roarke smiled at her, then kissed Delphine's hands and suggested, "Well, let's proceed with the ceremony...my goddaughter." Delphine beamed at that, and Roarke opened the shutters, allowing Delphine out first. Greg was there watching her, and Zachariah stood nearby; he lit up when Delphine came out, and Leslie fell in beside Roarke in time to watch him offer his arm to the young woman. Roarke in turn offered his arm to Leslie, who took it with a surprised but delighted smile that made him grin back at her with amusement, and they brought up the rear on their way to the wedding venue.

She went to stand beside Tattoo, who waited at the organ, and soon the ceremony was under way; it was quiet, with hardly anyone there, and Leslie wondered if that was the way Greg and Delphine had planned it. Still, it made for a peaceful, tranquil scene, and presently Roarke reached the meat of the ceremony. "And if anyone here can show just cause why this man and this woman may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace." Nearby, Zachariah fidgeted noticeably, and Leslie eyed him suspiciously, scowling.

"I will speak!" announced a hoarse, low-pitched female voice in a strange eastern-European accent, and Madame Cluny scuttled into view from one of the paths, shoving aside fern fronds. Everyone turned to see who it was, and Delphine brightened.

"Cluny, how nice of you to come!" she exclaimed.

"I raised that girl," Cluny intoned ominously. "I was her nursemaid. I can tell you she is a sorceress!"

Tattoo and Leslie exchanged glances—his bewildered, hers dismayed—and Greg Randolph threw her a disbelieving look. "A _what?"_

"She is the source," droned Cluny, "the custodian of a magical force passed down from her family—the Gift of the MacNabbs!" Greg shot Delphine a look; Delphine seemed a little stunned. "And she deliberately and flagrantly deceived this young man—hidden from him her powers! Roarke, I call upon you to denounce her, and stop the marriage!"

Leslie rolled her eyes. _Like he'd ever do that! _she thought in disgust. She saw the skeptical look on Greg's face and the expression of angry betrayal on Delphine's, the disapproving expression on Roarke, and held her breath, waiting.

"No," Delphine burst out. "I love him." She raised her left hand in a deliberate move that made Leslie wince; from the corner of her eye she noticed Zachariah toss out a pair of small spheres toward Cluny. They bounced in the fortuneteller's direction and exploded briefly into a tall flame; when it died out, Cluny had vanished.

Greg did a slight double take; Delphine gaped, then wilted with defeat. "It's true," she moaned, looking ready to burst into tears. "I can't marry you, Greg." Nearby Zachariah shifted his stance, a satisfied look on his face. "I can't get this thing under control! I told uncle this isn't a gift, it's a family curse!" She turned away from Greg and moved a few steps aside, her head low and her eyes closed.

"You are wrong, my dear," Roarke told her. "You can control it." Greg stared at him, but he continued to address Delphine. "This, for once, was not your doing." Delphine turned around and gave him an astonished look, and he smiled. "Oh, you had the thought in your heart, but someone else performed the deed." His left arm shot out and he pointed straight at the true culprit without taking his eyes from Delphine. "Mr. Zachariah."

Zachariah looked aghast for a moment, his cane sliding through his gloved hands as if he were about to drop it; then he surged forward. "Come now, my dear fellow. I'm just a stage illusionist! I do tricks, but I have no special powers..."

"Precisely," Roarke broke in, turning to him. "For years you have used Miss MacNabb's special powers to perform all kinds of astounding tricks which none of your stage rivals could duplicate. But now, without those powers, you were forced to conjure up a somewhat spectacular, if routine, illusion."

Leslie ducked her head a little to hide the grin that began to break out across her face; Tattoo blinked in amazement, and Greg stared at Delphine. "Come out of the bushes, Cluny," Roarke commanded, as if reprimanding a misbehaving child. The ferns behind Tattoo and Leslie rustled, and they turned around, watching the shamefaced fortuneteller get to her feet and peer sheepishly out from between fronds.

Greg turned back to Delphine, who went to Zachariah and touched his cheek. "If only I had known. I would never have run out on you."

Zachariah smiled mistily. "So...consider yourself fired," he said and winked in an ostentatious manner. He kissed her cheek, and she grinned.

Roarke turned to face a still-bewildered Greg. "Miss MacNabb has self-control; she earned it by a supreme effort of willpower and a profound love for you. You are a very fortunate young man, Mr. Randolph. With such a wife, there is no telling how much you can accomplish in life." He took in Greg's still befuddled look and offered, "Shall we, uh, continue with the ceremony?"

Greg seemed to give up. "Continue, by all means, Mr. Roarke," he said, and finally smiled, making Delphine light up and join him at his side once more.

"Now...where was I?" Roarke asked, rubbing his forehead in confusion.

"Something about speaking now or holding your peace?" Leslie offered, trying to recall whether he had finished that part of the ceremony or not.

"Boss," Tattoo spoke up, "why don't you start at the beginning? Weddings turn me on." He smiled broadly, and everyone laughed.


	12. Chapter 12

§ § § - April 13, 1982

The first rover arrived with Paul Todd and Elizabeth Drake, who stepped out and beamed at their hosts. "Mr. Roarke," Todd said, "we would like to thank you for all your help." He smiled at Elizabeth as he spoke.

"I am only sorry that you lost the greatest scientific discovery of your life, Dr. Todd," Roarke said with sympathy.

"It's all right," Todd said, gazing down at Elizabeth. "I found something even more important." She brightened, and they smiled at each other.

"If only we could have communicated with the creature," Elizabeth said wistfully.

Roarke observed, "It was thirty million years beyond its own time, Miss Drake."

"It belonged to the fire that created it," Tattoo added.

As Todd nodded thoughtfully, Roarke inquired, "Dr. Todd, where is your colleague, Dr. Mason?"

"Oh, he's taking a later flight." A smirk crossed his face and he said suggestively, "Two is company."

Tattoo grinned. "Boss, I'm not gonna say three's a crowd."

"Good thing," Leslie pitched in, and everyone laughed and exchanged goodbyes; they waved, as always, one final time, then turned to the next rover, from which Greg Randolph handed out his new wife, Delphine.

"I've learned two important things, Mr. Roarke," Greg remarked. "That strength of character is a lot more important than conforming, and that my wife is even more special than I ever thought."

Delphine turned to her godfather and said wholeheartedly, "There's so much to thank you for, uncle. You've given me self-discipline, control over my own life..." She smiled.

Roarke smiled back and said, "I am very happy for both of you, Mr. and Mrs. Randolph. My dear, your parents would be proud of you. Don't be afraid to use the gift they bequeathed you."

Delphine blinked at him in shock. "But you said—"

"When it can achieve something truly worthwhile," Roarke added, smiling.

"The world needs all the magic it can get," Tattoo added.

"That's right," Roarke agreed, and once more they bid one another farewell and watched the Randolphs make their way briskly toward the plane dock, returning their final waves of goodbye. Then Tattoo turned to Roarke.

"Boss," he said, "what's gonna happen to Mr. Zachariah?"

"And that creepy Madame Cluny?" Leslie put in.

"The Prince of Magic has officially announced his retirement, Tattoo," Roarke said, "and at the same time found himself a new partner." He eyed Leslie as he said this.

"A new partner? I don't get it," Tattoo said, scowling in perplexity.

Roarke grinned. "He is now half owner in a small local business—"

"Oh!" Leslie blurted, and chorused along with Roarke and Tattoo, "Madame Cluny's Curio Shop!" Laughing, they watched the plane taxi out of sight across the lagoon.

§ § § - October 5, 2009

"So that's how it happened!" Julie said thoughtfully. "I always wanted to see my brother-in-law's face when he first found out that Delphine really did have magical abilities. He's so used to them by now, I guess he thinks it's normal."

"Is your family one of the clans also?" Christian asked her.

"Nope. Ask Leslie to explain it sometime. I told her and her friend Frida exactly how the MacNabbs came to get their magical powers, and in the process I had to tell her why it was that I don't happen to have them. It made me kind of mad for a long time, but I've come to terms with it." Julie smiled.

"And is that curio shop still here?" Anna-Kristina wondered.

"Not anymore. It stayed in business for another seven years or so, and then closed down when Madame Cluny retired and she and Zachariah relocated to Las Vegas." Leslie grinned at Christian. "It was in a very familiar place—it used to occupy half of what's now your office." Christian's brow popped up and they all laughed.

They settled back for a few minutes; then Christian consulted his Rolex. "Well, I think enough time's gone by that that e-mail should be here. Let me check." He dropped a kiss on Leslie's cheek before arising and going to the computer. Julie checked the grandfather clock, decided she needed to get home and thanked them for the story before hurrying out the French shutters.

Christian sent the computer chair twirling to face Roarke. "According to the castle doctor, Anna-Kristina has never had any adverse reactions to an anesthetic. He's attached a few pertinent papers, but I think his word is enough to go by."

"I suggest you print the papers in any case, so that there is proof for the hospital," said Roarke, and Christian nodded and set about doing so. To Anna-Kristina he said, "It appears you can tolerate anesthesia with little problem; so it's up to you as to whether you wish to go ahead with your request to be placed in a coma for at least the next few days."

The princess pulled in a deep breath and nodded. "Yes...I think I'd prefer that. I'm already terrified of whatever I might dream about tonight, otherwise. Besides, the nightmares wake me with screams, and I've been interrupting everyone's sleep. I know Uncle Christian and Aunt Leslie understand why, but I don't think they're any happier than the children about being ripped from a sound sleep in the smallest hours."

Christian and Leslie laughed, and Roarke chuckled, nodding a few times. "Very well, then we will make the arrangements as soon as Christian has those papers printed."

Ten minutes later they had admitted Anna-Kristina and gotten her set up in a room by herself; nurses were preparing the needed equipment while a doctor explained that they were going to fit her out with a urinary catheter and attach nutritional and hydration solutions to her via IV so that she could remain under for a prolonged period. "We'll keep you under normal anesthetic for the first twelve hours," the doctor explained. "If you don't have any reactions, we'll sedate you further and keep you there for no more than five days. At that point we'll awaken you and find out how you're doing, and decide what happens from that point."

Anna-Kristina nodded. "That's fine. I ask only one thing—please put me under before you insert all the tubes, will you?"

They all laughed, and the doctor agreed, then turned to Christian and Leslie. "I'll let you two have a last few words with her," he said, and left the room.

"This will be a relief," Anna-Kristina admitted before her aunt or uncle could speak. "I know you'll have it worse than I—I won't know anything while I'm unconscious, and to me it will be only an instant before I'm awake again."

Christian sighed gently and let a reluctant smile creep across his features. "That's true enough, but you should know that we'll be leaving instructions for the staff here to notify us when they're ready to bring you back out of the coma. So we'll be right here when you wake again, Leslie and I. And I have to hope you're lucid and alert when you do."

She smiled. "I think you should be optimistic, Uncle Christian. Mostly because if you aren't, it'll make me nervous."

Leslie grinned when he snorted. "She does have a point, my love. Anyway, Stina, we'll see you sometime on Saturday. Have a good rest."

"I know I will," she said with a smirk, and this time Christian rolled his eyes with exaggerated motions. "Oh, stop _teasing_, Uncle Christian! I'm sure you don't tease your children half as much as you do me!"

"I can't help it—your reactions are just too much fun," Christian informed her with a wicked little grin. "All right, enough. Rest well, _brorsdattir,_ and we'll be back here when you wake. Leslie, my Rose, let's go tend to the baby and find out what's for lunch."

She agreed, but in the end they found themselves lingering at Anna-Kristina's request, watching her being sedated. She breathed deeply as the doctor fitted the gas mask over her face and nodded approval. "Very good, Your Highness. Sleep well, now." That made her smile; the expression faded out within another minute or so and her eyes slid shut, and she relaxed into silent slumber.

On their way out of the hospital, Christian remarked, "She's been asking for fantasy memories since she got here. Something tells me that, if she's lucid enough when she wakes, she'll ask for another."

Leslie grinned. "Well, heck knows we have plenty of them. Let's go pick up Anastasia and head for home." He smiled at that and wrapped an arm around her, keeping her snugly at his side all the way back to the main house.

* * *

_I'm really excited about the story coming up, and I hope you will be too, because Christian and Leslie will be learning new things about each other! I hope to have it complete and ready to post soon, so keep watch for it..._


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